Of Lightning and Wildfire
by Seb Never Misses The Mark
Summary: On an escapade in Germany to finish off Moriarty's henchmen, Sherlock finds himself on the edge of death. Only after he realises who saved his life does he begin to question everything he believes. To his chagrin, he'll need the Doctor's help once again.
1. Report

_I do not own Doctor Who or Sherlock, nor do I wish to. The following fanfic is post-Reichenbach, post-Journey's End (with some modifications). I will state up front I have no major obligation to this story and, though I am in love with the plot, many other things are of higher priority. A big kudos to Talitha for not only inspiring me to write this, but also brainstorming with me to make this as wonderful as it is._

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><p><em>1.<em>

_John._

All that resounded in Sherlock's head was the sound of metal cutting air as the bullet streaked through the space between him and his killer. This was a shot to kill, after all. The fatal blow.

But, miscalculations were often overlooked or disregarded when one suffered from panic.

Sherlock located him. He was undoubtedly the man who was hired to take Lestrade out in the event that Sherlock failed to leap from St. Bart's rooftop. According to one of Sherlock's many [often, but not always] reliable leads, Armin Fischer was a fairly gruff man with the posture of an official. According to another, he had blond-grey hair and very dark, very black eyes.

_John…_

Why was that name repeating itself? An echo of sorts, breaking his train of thought. Not that thought mattered, now he was dead.

_John._

Death was like a dream, then. Oh, but there was pain. That piercingly real pain in his abdomen where the silver-coloured metal dug into his body and tore apart his skin and muscle like a pen through plastic. He could hear the event as it played again and again behind closed eyes, but the nothingness was far more overwhelming. It seemed like he was thrashing—trying to break free from the restraints holding him back—all the progress he'd made was sinking to the deepest of deep in the depths of the ocean, never to be seen again and there wasn't a thing he could do about it.

If he was dead, he could let John live, but he would never really know if the army doctor was alive.

_John._

Yes, John. It was coming back to him; the importance of his mission and the essence lying beneath it.

He found Fischer in Germany, of course. A remote town with a decent enough landscape and not many people. A home town. Fischer lived here and his family (a daughter and wife) did, as well. Sherlock cared little for this information. He would only use it under extreme circumstances—if he had to threaten the women to lure Fischer into his calculated trap.

This was so simple. Sherlock killed him. Shot him three times, just for good measure.

Unfortunately, he was shot as well. It wasn't uncommon for him to be wounded in the fight. More often than not, he was. But, just as Fischer had miscalculated with his aim, Sherlock miscalculated with his preparation.

He was never outstandingly careful. A part of him enjoyed the hunt and the adrenaline and the rush. But he could use his words like grand tools and shape any situation in his favour.

This time Sherlock didn't get the chance to speak. Fischer was startled. He wasn't as smart as the others, clearly. He thought he stumbled upon a ghost and reacted accordingly. All Sherlock could do as he crumpled weakly was return fire and, in his desperation, as the lights began to fade from his sight, he hit his mark. Three times.

_Three bullets. Three gunmen. Three victims._

And Sherlock began to bleed out. Much quicker than he expected, based solely on the trajectory and point of impact. He only had a few moments to inspect the damage, but he realised it was not something to be taken lightly.

He needed to get to a hospital. And fast.

But the silence seemed so much more inviting…

"_John."_

Suddenly, everything was fading, much like the night of his death. He felt like he was dying all over again, but the pain was dim and his body was already stiff. It took effort to open his eyes, and when he did, they locked onto the bright tiger's eye irises of a young girl ten years his junior.

"Who's John?" she asked, head propped up in her hand as she rest her elbow on the pillow beside his head.

Sherlock's eyes were only half-opened and he didn't give her the courtesy of even the subtlest reaction to her inquiry.

The blonde pursed her lips as her brow furrowed. "You okay?" she pressed, but her voice was softer this time, as if she was afraid she was the reason he awoke.

"Fine," he managed, noting the strictly obvious cockney accent she spoke with.

There was a pause and the woman slumped her arm and rest on the meat of her bicep, folding her hand over her head with no other place to put it. She was a photograph in a picture frame.

"Who's John?" she asked again, now whispering secretively.

Sherlock swallowed. Eyes closing for merely a moment, the lids elevated again and the detective took a deep, steadying breath.

"My brother." Ah, no. Too close of a relative. Too dangerous. "We're not close. He's adopted, actually. I've only met him a few times." It was easy to lie steadily, though his voice was weak. That, however, was due to his physical state and little could be done to amend it. "Why?"

The blonde gave a partial shrug, but it was dominantly of her right shoulder, which wasn't restricted by the weight of her head. "I dunno. You kept sayin' 'is name."

For a brief moment, the sound of a British accent was comforting. It was home. It was everything he knew and tolerated.

Then, the anxiety came. Why was this woman here? In Germany? This was Germany, right? He didn't dream about killing Fischer. No.

"I was dreaming. He was in it. Peculiar, really, but one cannot control what or who they dream." Sherlock knew he sounded too straight-forward. Too much like himself. He decided to turn the conversation onto her as he bent his leg under the covers, keeping the other comfortably straight. "I'm sorry," he started, playing with his tone to make it kinder, "What's your name?" And he added a soft smile to top it off.

She smiled back. "Rose," she replied, seeming to brighten as she said it. How that was possible, he didn't know. "Wha's yours?"

Sherlock yawned, which irritated him to some degree, though he conceded it helped him play his part. "Michael. What… happened to me? Do you know?"

"Ah… you were, uh… shot."

Of course he was. The bang of the gunshot could be heard in his mind again and he winced in spite of the composure he so keenly wished to present. "Obviously," he spat, fingers curling into a ball under the sheets. "Where am I?"

Rose seemed a bit more alert, now, though she managed to keep her manner positive. "You're still in Germany. I mean, you're not that fa' from the Inn. And ya were shot just about a half a mile from here. We took ya to the hospital to fix ya up." Rose frowned the slightest degree. "You've been sleepin' for about four days, now."

With a grimace, Sherlock found the strength to sit upright.

"Careful," the blonde warned him, sitting up as well and placing a hand on his upper back to support him.

"You took me to a hospital? Which one? There isn't one in this town." Turning toward her, he wrapped his fingers around her upper arm, shifting and steadying himself. "You would've had to drive quite a bit. The people here have a home practice."

Even so, being such a small and united community, the town's designated physician probably didn't want much trouble. It was likely he'd see someone who was bleeding out, just to avoid the guilt of turning someone away, but it would be quite a big ordeal. Sherlock would be making a scene with his near-death. A scene he couldn't afford to make, as he was already supposedly deceased.

"No," the woman responded, helping him out of his bed. "Not a hospital here. I's a place we—well, a friend'a mine—he, well… Don't worry 'bout it. It wasn't much trouble if tha's what you're wond'rin'."

Sherlock regarded the robe he was wearing in passing, untying the knot at his waist to open the material. He could see out of the corner of his eye as the young woman looked away, clearly giving him his space and otherwise embarrassed.

"There's…" Sherlock spoke aloud, all thoughts of this mysterious hospital fading as his eyes skimmed the clean and woundless flesh of his abdominal muscles. "Where's the wound? There's no wound. But I—" Swallowing nervously cut off his train of thought.

"Yeah, i's really—he said ya wouldn't believe me if I told ya, so I'd rather just say i's complicated."

"Who said I wouldn't believe you?"

Sherlock retied his robe, glad it was easy to move, but conflicted as to why. This was panic, now, coursing through him. So much, in fact, he could hear his own heart pounding viciously in his chest, but he showed no signs of stress. He felt vacant in this room, desperate for the right questions.

"The Doctor. He's fixin' up… something right now. I can take ya to 'im if ya'd like."

The detective shook his head, taking a few steps forward with the intent to pace, but he stopped just as quickly. "No, that's quite alright." He watched as the blonde sat on the edge of the bed and regarded him with a tilted head. Sherlock made his mouth a hard line, staring right back. "Who are you? Where are we?"

"I already told you—"

"I mean specifically! Why is the wound gone?" He gestured dramatically to his chest, then waved his hand just as quickly outward to put emphasis on his next words. "What happened? Where's Fischer?"

Rose laughed softly, the giggle escaping abruptly and she put a palm to her mouth, like it would conceal the sound.

"This isn't funny," Sherlock scolded, voice deadpan.

"I'm sorry… It's just… Well… I can't tell ya."

"Why not?"

"Look…" Rose started, still smiling invitingly at him, her amused grin melting into a fond smile with ever-so-slightly pursed lips. He was so much like the Doctor, it was eerie. "I'mma trav'la of sorts. We really just stumbled upon ya out there and took ya in to patch ya up."

Sherlock stared at her for a long while, mouth open a fraction.

"I know who y'are," she told him, breaking the silence as the charcoal-haired man took a few steps back and slumped against her dresser.

"Ah, that's…" Sherlock cleared his throat. "Mm."

"Sherlock Holmes, right?"

The scientist's heart sank. He'd gone to a hospital and was discovered for his true identity. Unsatisfactory was an understatement in his current predicament. He wasn't yet finished with his work.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Sherlock replied, but his voice betrayed him. There was something intoxicating about this Rose character—an essence that lured him in and Sherlock felt he could trust this stranger with his life. That was the most formidable instinct he'd ever stumbled upon. One he never knew the existence of until meeting John.

"The Doctor told me what ya did. It was very admirable, Sherlock."


	2. Clouded

_Ah, since it's been asked, yes, this will be 10Rose/Johnlock by the end of this fic. There are also several other couples that will play out. However, to get to my OTPs (and yours) I'm taking the long road and a lot of chaos is going to ensue before hand._

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><p><em>2.<em>

The circuit of Rose's new life with the Doctor was immortal. She wouldn't know what to do with herself without him. Such a significant part of her life, the Doctor led her through the dark and brought her to the other side of logic, allowing her to dance in her dreams and run until the ground could no longer sustain her weight.

She called herself a traveller, but stepping over the line of what _should be_ and what was _plausible_, her imagination told her she was strapped to a feather on the wind, letting the current take her where nature intended. The possibilities were vast and, merely a day after meeting the Doctor, Rose Tyler became a believer in all things.

That's what made this all so humorous in her eyes. She harboured a man of science in her TARDIS and it was quite clear to her he didn't know how to wrap his mind around what was right in front of him.

If the Doctor was blind, he would be Sherlock Holmes.

That was their prime discrepancy. The Doctor was open and whimsical and the only known fan of the human race. Whereas Sherlock had barriers, bolted and chained, and he was always so unrelenting in his opinion that no one in existence could match himself in worth.

Rose's time away from the Doctor in the parallel world put a perspective on things. He certainly loved her, that much was clear, and in his goodbye at Bad Wolf Bay he was going to tell her. But telling her, now she returned, was too much of a gamble. They would actually be together. They would be so much more. And he didn't want to burden her with the responsibility of his name or make her feel obligated to stay with him forever.

Eventually she would want to leave.

Of course none of that was true, but it was what the Doctor believed and he knew holding onto Rose was wrong. It was robbing her of a real, human life. Something so spectacular it couldn't be matched and the Doctor ached every day knowing he couldn't give it to her.

In returning from Pete's world, however, she was giving up the chance to be with her family all for him. Her parents were reunited, even in the shadow of her father's death, and they had a child together, rekindling their love. It was everything Rose ever wanted for her mother.

But _this_ was her universe and she belonged here.

After a few trips out of the Earth's orbit to get back on her feet, Rose decided she wanted to visit her home planet once more. The Doctor couldn't agree more. Though they were keyed in to land in London, the TARDIS rerouted itself and planted them in Germany.

Neither of them thought much of it. Why change course again when there was time to explore here?

Only ten minutes into their expedition did they discover a wounded and unconscious man with a mop of dark drown hair. He was curled in on himself, accepting of death, on the verge. He lost a lot of blood.

Rose remembered the Doctor telling her a story of a young boy who didn't believe in him. A small child who was so incredibly intelligent, he could pass as a Time Lord if he wasn't so stubbornly ignorant.

She never would've guessed that same boy was the man she read about in passing when she was searching about online. She'd been away from London so long, but the story captured her interest. It was just that, though. A story.

Now, here she was, looking after that very man—that small, myopic child the Doctor met only months before Rose's return and the death of the human version of himself and the loss of his best friend.

"'Doctor' isn't a name. It's a title," Sherlock told her when she brought him into the second kitchen of the TARDIS and had the ship prep a quick meal for him. He didn't watch. He was fiddling with his phone.

"Sure i's a name," she countered. "I's the Doctor's name."

Feeling much better than he did when he first awoke, Sherlock began to resort back to childish antics—something he hadn't openly done in just over two years. It showed he was comfortable with a person and that he could respect them enough to take their words into consideration, even if he didn't like it. He rolled his eyes and "hmph"ed softly, going back to reading his text messages.

[February 3rd, 6:23PM]  
>[From +44 151 692 3822] What did you do?<p>

[February 3rd, 8:21PM]  
>[From +44 20 8102 3331] The new code for the account is 2A783.<p>

[February 5th, 1:37PM]  
>[From +44 151 692 3822] I bought myself a little present. I'll show you next time you come around.<p>

[February 5th, 3:10PM]  
>[From +44 151 692 3822] Are you ignoring me, Mr. Holmes?<p>

[Missed call from +44 151 692 3822]  
>[Voicemail from +44 151 692 3822]<p>

[February 6th, 9:01AM]  
>[From +44 151 692 3822] What happened to you? I need to tell you something. It's important.<p>

[Missed call from +44 151 692 3822]

[February 6th, 12:53PM]  
>[From +44 151 692 3822] Okay, something's obviously wrong. I'm going to see if Paul knows anything and if he doesn't, well, I guess you better be dead. Because I'm going to start the biggest search party you've ever seen.<p>

[February 6th, 5:42PM]  
>[From +44 20 4554 5422] Did someone finally sniff you out?<p>

Pursing his lips in thought, the detective considered calling Irene. He would much prefer to text, but she was clearly shaken by his absence, or in the least, annoyed by the possible problem at hand. People were so utterly sentimental.

Rose began to absently braid a section of her hair as she waited for the buzz of the food replicator. It didn't take too long before the noise was heard and the blonde popped open the door to the machine before pulling out a steaming meal on a plate.

"Is somethin' the matter?" she inquired softly, pushing the plate in front of him over the table. She was sure the man was still moping over their petty debate, but his eyes were alight as they rose to meet her own. Confliction contorted his face, but it was subtle enough to be missed if one wasn't looking for it. "What is it?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Personal problem," he deigned, picking up the fork on the napkin beside his plate.

"D'ya wanna talk 'bout it?" Rose pulled a chair from it's tucked position under the table and sat herself, then scooted forward to get closer to him.

"What good will that do?"

"Ya won't know 'til you try."

Her smile was genuine. All of her smiles were. It was such a contrast from the sly smile of Irene or the conniving smile worn by Mycroft.

Sherlock tilted his head and pierced a sweet potato with the prongs of his fork. "A friend is worried about me." After a pause, he brought it to his mouth and took a bite. He didn't eat often—even more rarely while he was in pursuit of Moriarty's men. John would've been nagging at him daily if he knew how long the man went between meals. But, in this moment, he felt ravenous.

"Which friend?" pressed the woman, her voice tinted with curiosity.

Sherlock would've responded, but he broke the conversation to take several bites. And another. And another.

Rose's right foot began to bounce softly as she watched him eat. "You were hungry," she said after some time, though she'd looked away, again to give him his space.

Clearing his throat, the scientist then licked his lips and narrowed his eyes at her. "No, I wasn't. I was being polite."

"That doesn't sound like you."

He pushed his plate away and towards her, to where she picked up the plate and pushed back in her chair to clean up. He didn't reply, but merely plucked his phone from the table.

[February 7th, 10:39AM]  
>[To +44 151 692 3822] I'm not dead. Let's have dinner.<p>

After Rose left the plate in the sink, the water she left running for a moment pooling in the centre of the biodegradable material. She then returned to the table.

"I read 'bout ya, once. Online."

"Ah, so that's how you know me."

The blonde shook her head. "No. No, I was just mentioning it."

His phone dinged gaily.

[February 7th, 10:41AM]  
>[From +44 151 692 3822] Strictly speaking, Mr. Holmes?<p>

"That seems pointless."

[February 7th, 10:41AM]  
>[To +44 151 692 3822] Strictly satirical, Miss Adler.<p>

There was an echoing silence following his sent message and he looked up from his phone, to where the foreign woman was assessing him with a slightly furrowed brow. This expression melted gradually, but Sherlock didn't speak up. Another ding came from his mobile, but he didn't react.

Rose clicked her tongue. "I want ya to… sum me up. Like it says ya do in the news. It said ya would research people and pretend like ya knew them. But I know it was real."

"You want me to deduce you?" She nodded ever so slowly. It was definitely a terrible idea. The most prominent lesson he learned from John was that people were sensitive and his words often upset them, even if he didn't realise it. Rose was… tolerable, in the least. But, before he could think further on this, he already began. "You're insecure because you're afraid I don't really see you. You've learned of my persona from an inaccurate source and now you need proof, despite what you wish to believe, which makes you wonder if you're even interesting enough for me to feel the urge to surmise your backstory. You're probably right. You're average. Used to someone else—this _Doctor_—being the voice and it makes you uncomfortable being in the spotlight like this. Being the only one here with me, now I'm awake." Sherlock looked away, folding his hands atop the table. "You feel alone. You've been alone. And you know the comfort of company—this company you left everything for—will eventually leave you, regardless of the sacrifices you've made."

Falling completely silent, Rose released a weak breath. Her eyes were slightly larger than usual, and she slouched in her chair, hands clasped in her lap. No matter what she expected, she wasn't planning to feel so exposed. She assumed no one who met Sherlock ever did.

"…Yeah," was her only audible response, but she gave a brief nod and swallowed. After a moment, she smiled, trying to encourage him and make sure he knew it was okay. "Tha's… real impressive."

Just as Sherlock startled her, she startled him.

This wasn't the usual response he received. He couldn't help but think of the first time he met John and how, instead of getting angry, she was astonished but the manner in which he extracted information and put it into words. Just one look was all it took for most and, though he could go deeper—talk about the necklace she wore and how it was clearly from her mother, and inquire about the one she had tucked under her shirt, but now was not the time to delve into sentiment.

He still had to deal with Irene.

This thought made him remember her text and he allowed the smallest of smirks when he further analysed Rose's response to his deduction as he opened the new message.

[February 7th, 10:45AM]  
>[From +44 151 692 3822] Where are you?<p>

[February 7th, 10:46AM]  
>[To +44 151 692 3822] I'm fine.<p>

"Where are my clothes?" Sherlock asked Rose, proceeding to stand, phone in his curled fist.

"Ah, they're… well…" She followed suit, circling the table to get nearer to the man. "I tossed ya shirt and trousers, but we have some ya can have."

He nodded and she led him out of the kitchen.

[February 7th, 10:47AM]  
>[From +44 151 692 3822] That's not what I asked.<p>

[February 7th, 10:47AM]  
>[To +44 151 692 3822] I know. I found it easier to answer with my current state as I do not know where I am.<p>

"What is this place?" Sherlock asked, peering down the long hallways at peculiar architecture.

With a sideways glance, Rose sighed. "Ya wouldn't believe me if I told ya."

"You keep saying that."

"Because it's true."

[February 7th, 10:48AM]  
>[From +44 151 692 3822] Don't do anything too reckless.<p>

[February 7th, 10:48AM]  
>[To +44 151 692 3822] I killed Fischer.<p>

"The windows are fake. In the bedroom and in the kitchen. You use a microwave to cook a pre-cooked meal and there's no stove or fridge in your kitchen, so obviously you're getting your nutrients from something shipped daily. Perhaps to keep the proportions you have on hand low." Rose led him into a room, brow knitted in the centre of her forehead as her eyes read the features of a man with wheels that never stopped turning. "Is this some sort of institution?"

Unable to help herself, Rose laughed. The wardrobe change room was bright with a white-orange light and it brought the mirth in her entertainment out tenfold. The room was medium in size and it had spin-racks with clothes on hangers and signs designating what was located where like a thrift store where everything was free.

"I's nothin' like that." Approaching a rack labeled 'jeans', the blonde began to sort, pushing a pair to the right if it wasn't the perfect colour for him or obviously too small. "Wha's your size?"

"Can I leave after this? Or are you going to restrain me? Or do you have someone to do that for you?"

Rose smiled again and turned to him. He followed her up to the rack, but was trying to read her further, to fully understand what was going on. To his bewilderment, the woman took both his hands in her own. He instinctively made a move to pull away, but she shook her head at him and proceeded.

"Sherlock. Relax. Ya can leave wheneva ya like. I just wanted t'get a meal in ya. You've been asleep for halfa week.

"This place? It's wha' I travel in. It's a ship. A space ship to be exact." She gave both his hands a squeeze, then released him altogether.

Sherlock began to laugh. He laughed because he wasn't dead and because he missed John and because she reminded him of John. He laughed because before today, he hadn't laughed in so long—he'd forgotten what it felt like to have someone to talk to who didn't know about what he'd done in the past two years and all the people he'd hurt and all the effort he made to stay hidden. He laughed because she was _funny_; she was genuinely trying to _make_ him laugh, now, and the simple fact that it worked only made it funnier.

Rose laughed with him. She knew he wouldn't believe her words to be true, but she would prove it to him eventually. Open up those eyes of his. And this was okay. The two of them standing here, strangers from the same home town, who were both so far from home and for such different reasons.

"Thirty-four or thirty-six," Sherlock told her after a few moments and she gave him an odd look before realising what that was in reference to. "But, I don't really like jeans. Too restricting."

Complying, the blonde moved to another rack and sorted through those, instead.

The scientist spoke up again. "I lied before. About John."

[February 7th, 10:53AM]  
>[From +44 151 692 3822] I said not to do anything TOO reckless. Like getting yourself killed. Did you get my voicemail?<p>

"Oh?"

[February 7th, 10:54AM]  
>[To +44 151 692 3822] Yes, but I haven't listened to it.<p>

"He's not my brother." He watched as Rose found a decent pair and looked at them for a moment before folding them over her arm. "He's my friend."

"I see. Why'd ya lie?" Finding a shirt was much easier for her and she handed the outfit over, searching Sherlock's pale blue eyes with interest.

"The same reason I lied about my name."

This time the understanding was instant. "Ya want to protect him."

Sherlock didn't reply. He looked at the clothes in his grasp and then back up, again. Was he supposed to say something? She didn't really offer and she didn't seem like she was going out of her way. But, John would tell him to be gracious and Rose deserved just that, he supposed.

"…Thank-you," he replied, and the words were somewhat out of place. He didn't want to talk about John. All Sherlock could do was think about him and it was driving him crazy. Rose wasn't helping.

"Ya welcome. If there's anythin' else ya need, I'd be glad to help. Changin' rooms in the back. I'll wait f'ya."

He gave her a curt nod, paused for a moment, then head in that direction. Sherlock didn't bother with the lock. He felt locks senseless, but only because he found them so easy to break and assumed everyone could do the same.

Sherlock set the clothes down on the bench in the room, right under the mirror. He unlocked his phone and dialed his voicemail.

"Enter your password and then press pound.

"You have one new voice message. First voice message:"

The animated speaker left him and the sultry sound of Irene filled his head.

"Where the hell are you? Disappearing is fine—I don't care if I don't know where you are—but you can't just—You can't stop checking in. I'm trying to help you. Sherlock, I'm worried. I hate saying that, but I am. I know you hate hearing it, too, but I _am._

"I just got news about John. You have to be alright because you have to know this. You have to stop it. He's engaged to some woman and they're getting married. Don't be dead. Because this isn't going to work for me and if you don't stop it, I will.

"No one forgets you, Mr. Holmes."


	3. Overcast

_Things get interesting._

* * *

><p><em>3.<em>

[February 7th, 11:01AM]  
>[To +44 151 692 3822] Why would I care if John's getting married?<p>

Sherlock's mind raced as he put on his new clothes and he didn't send that reply until after he was dressed. The process was tedious—new clothing was the stepping stone to a brand new disguise and quite necessary, but in this, it was also necessary to find something that worked. He couldn't stand out too much, which is why he didn't protest when Rose handed him the brown cotton polo shirt. Perhaps he'd work on a slightly different accent and reconstruct a fresh back story, as well.

He was still wearing his same undergarments from (how many days did she say it was?) Monday. It reminded him of dropping out of college and his first year on his own. In college, he had a roommate named Roger and, though he wasn't there often, at least he would be Sherlock's excuse for continuing his constant stream of scientific experiments inside their room. Sherlock always wanted to impress.

Roger obviously didn't like him much, but he did get Sherlock into drugs to 'calm him down.' He wasn't sure if he resented or thanked Roger for that.

But once he was out of college, it didn't matter, anymore. There _wasn't _anyone to impress. Nobody cared. Even when he brought his leads to the police, they turned him away. He wasn't qualified. Qualification was all that mattered—not actual skill. Because why would they want someone who could actually _do_ the job as opposed to someone who can half-ass it and throw around some paper work _saying_ they can? Preposterous.

Mycroft paid for his housing and Sherlock pissed away the hours of the day experimenting on himself or various inanimate objects around his flat. His brother told him he needed to get a job of his own or he'd pull the money out from under him.

Sherlock didn't listen.

He ended up on the streets and he only declined from there, his body deteriorating as his mind continued to race. The cocaine was nice. It was this sudden jolt taking over his body and letting all of his emotions seem insubstantial in essence. It only enforced the lesson Mycroft taught him—caring was the farthest thing from imperative.

He hated Mycroft for making Sherlock believe in him. His elder brother only disappointed him over the years. He left him when he most needed someone to look up to and he punished him when he didn't do ask Mycroft asked. Could he not see Sherlock needed him? Someone. Anyone at all? Or did he just not care? _Caring is not an advantage._

It wasn't until he met John that he found someone to believe in him. Perhaps that was all he really needed. It was something so simple, yet so vital. Sherlock wasn't a bitter person, except in his relationship with Mycroft. It felt as if his brother was trying to make up for his mistakes in the past, but Sherlock would have none of it.

John helped him see that not everyone wanted to hurt him. So, he started letting people in, little by little. First Mrs. Hudson, then Lestrade, and even Molly, someone he'd dismissed time and time again.

Sherlock made his way out of the changing room, and watched for a moment as Rose looked up at him. She was casually browsing the shoe rack—always had to have something fashionable _and_ comfortable!

"They fit, then?" Rose asked with a smile, standing from her squatting position as she pushed up with her hand, using the rack for support.

"No. I feel constricted, but I'm wearing them, anyway."

"We can get ya a diff'rent pair."

"Sarcasm." Rose's lips made a small 'o'. "I have to go. Thank-you for your hospitality. Do I need to return these clothes?"

"Nope." Leading him back the way they came, she tucked some hair behind her ear and glanced down the hallway. "They're yours ta keep. And if ya need anythin' else, please jus' ask. I'll walk ya out."

[February 7th, 11:04AM]  
>[From +44 151 692 3822] Because you love him and he loves you, as well.<p>

Sherlock scoffed aloud at this response. A part of him was entertained how adamant Irene was to see Sherlock confess his _love_ for John. It was no doubt out of spite and perhaps even bitterness towards the scientist for not harbouring feelings for _her._

[February 7th, 11:05AM]  
>[To +44 151 692 3822] It will be inconvenient that John has no plans to move back into 221B, but I expected as much.<p>

Yes, marriage was not something Sherlock ever considered for John. He wasn't sure why, but he couldn't imagine the man getting married and the thought plagued him.

Of course when he called John before faking his death, his intent was to help the blond cope better with his death. Sherlock _wanted _his army friend to move on with his life and be alright with Sherlock being gone. Tracking down Moriarty's web would be a long and dangerous plight. Could take years. It had already.

This wasn't what he meant for John to do. He wanted him to cope with Sherlock's death and quickly ease out of the emotional state he'd find himself in, but marriage?

Well, obviously John wouldn't be moving back into 221B. That's the only thought that haunted him when he heard Irene's voicemail.

"Sherlock?" came Rose's voice and the brunet shook his head somewhat, eyes focusing on her.

"Yes?"

"I said d'ya wanna talk ta th'Doctor?"

He'd followed her subconsciously down the winding halls of this peculiar '_building'_. Of course there was no intent to trust a stranger this much, but now he found himself allowing his mind to wander off on some indelicate trail while he followed a stranger blindly.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, a bit too fervently. He pursed his lips and scolded himself internally, deciding to cover up his restlessness with a new topic. "Rose is a very… basic name. What colour would you say you are?"

She did a double take at his question, mouth opening to the slightest degree. "Yella'."

"Ah. A yellow Rose. A bit too bright for me. Too _sunshine-y._"

Rose chuckled softly. "Everyone could use a bit of sunshine in their lives."

"I'm from London. Sunshine is irrelevant."

"Th'sun still shines ova' London," Rose replied, voice gentle in her correction, "Jus' 'cause ya can't always see somethin' doesn't mean i's not there."

"Copenhagen interpretation." Sherlock shrugged.

She fell silent, not sure how to reply to that. It mattered little, though, as they were approaching the console room.

Huh. Irene hadn't replied.

Sherlock stopped at the edge of the hall, body stiffening as he saw the bright blue light illuminating the console room. It was decorated by round moonlit sidelights framed in cool metal hexagons and a crystal tube filled with smaller tubes arose from a bulbous table with a hundred different buttons and switches. The centre of the room was an upside-down technological mushroom. And it was held up on a grated ground circled by a simple silver railing.

A man stood by the mushroom, in a brown pinstripe suit. He had a bizarre glowing pen and was using it to shine light on a purple patch of metal.

"Doctor!" Rose called, her voice emanating her chosen colour of _yellow._ Sherlock suddenly wondered if he should begin catagorising people based on a colour scheme. John would be yellow, as well. No. He would be a bright tangerine. Orange. Yellow-to-orange. A sunset.

The lean man at the console turned and spotted Rose approaching with an affectionate smile. His eyes quickly darted to the figure standing at the edge of the room, eyes recording everything in sight.

"Sherlock! You're awake! Good!"

The glacial eyes of the scientist flashed to the man in striped chestnut.

"What is this place?" Sherlock asked, stepping forward into the room as his head turned to the left to examine the walls.

"I already told ya," came Rose's familiar voice. "I's a spaceship."

"He doesn't believe you."

Her attention moved to the Doctor and she linked her arm through his, voice lowering. "I know, bu' we can still try, right?"

"He'll need some time."

"Well, wha' happens when he goes outside?"

"We can only hope for the best."

Moving around the room at a slow and calculated pace, he approached the front door to the TARDIS, then crouched to look at the bottom before standing again.

"Where does this door lead?" Sherlock asked, turning on his heel to look at the couple in the centre of the chamber.

"Outside," the Doctor answered.

With a nod, the detective licked his lips. "I see." He took a few strides in their direction, gaze fixed on the elder brunet. "Who are you? How do you know my name?"

The Doctor was aware he was going to face this man. He wasn't sure when, but he knew it would happen one day. And even when he found Sherlock Holmes defeated and bleeding on the unforgiving earth of a small town in Germany, his reaction was simple: "_It's starting."_

"I'm the Doctor," the Time Lord began, pocketing his sonic screwdriver and unwinding himself from Rose before finishing the distance between them to shake Sherlock's hand. Sherlock didn't reply. He didn't even glance down at the Doctor's greeting.

"So I've heard."

The Doctor dropped his hand slowly, then wiped his palm on his trousers. "I'm a Time Lord."

"A Time Lord."

"Yes. A Time Lord. I'm an alien to your planet. _Well_," his hands slipped into his trouser pockets, "I suppose this place is a bit like home to me, now. It reminds me of home, anyway."

"Which is _where_, exactly?"

"Gallifrey. It's another planet. Actually, it's in another solar system, to be precise."

Sherlock merely stared, his expression a dim invariable. He'd been prone to psychosis before, once in Dartmoor where his mind failed him with impaired sight, and once before his fall, when James Moriarty convinced him for merely a moment he was a fraud.

_This_ was both visual and audio psychosis, combined.

"Well, this has been _charming_," Sherlock concluded sardonically. "I do appreciate the assistance, but I'll fair quite alright on my own. No time to play games." He found it difficult to force politeness, so, in turn, he nearly sounded snide.

Sherlock looked over the Doctor at the blonde woman, then began to make his way to the door. "Coming, Rose?"

The aforementioned woman took a half-step back at this question. It was unexpected. He wanted her to go _with _him? "We can help ya. If you're in trouble," she replied tentatively, not sure how to respond to him. Sherlock was alone, he was obviously in trouble, and someone or some_thing_ had it out for him. Rose looked to the Doctor for guidance, but his focus was on Sherlock and his face was eerily serious.

She frowned, but Sherlock made his way to the door and pulled it ajar, allowing the bright light of day to flood the artificially-lit console room. It was chilly out, a bit nippy, even, but not enough he would ask the odd pair for a jacket. There were clothes back at the Motel. Squinting, the detective made his way outside. Now, where exactly were they? Ah, there was the bakery. _Spitze_, it was called. 'Spitze' meaning top, or the cusp. The best, essentially. Best chocolate muffins he'd ever tasted. He'd have to tell Mycroft about them. Diet would fall through, though.

"Sherlock…" Rose began, following the man outside and grabbing onto his shirt sleeve. _Just ask for help. We can help you. _The Doctor wasn't far behind.

Sherlock pulled his attention from his surroundings and looked at her, instead. This only lasted the briefest of moments, however. His mind didn't even get to take in her features or her tortured expression—one that begged him to tell her what he was battling.

The Doctor was just a blur, calculated and pragmatic, his hands clasped behind his back. Watching. Observing.

There was a big. Blue. Phone box.

A phone box.

A police call box. A miniature office kiosk for police men with an incident recording book and a first aid kit on hand for emergencies.

An old style, probably 1960s, phone box from London, _in Germany_, but he was staring inside of it and at it and around it and it had that same interior Sherlock just departed from with the hexagon lights and the tubes and the techno-mushroom.

Rose was obviously about to say his name again, but he dashed past her and back into the TARDIS, irises dancing as they took in all the information. Slowly, he backed out the ship, again, gasping quietly despite himself as he saw the police box, again.

This was—how? How was this—where—no, this wasn't possible. It was just a trick of the mind. He was being fooled somehow, some_way_ and this was just an event looped in his mind, triggered by an outside force—maybe drugs or alcohol or maybe he _was _really dead, but then why was this all so realistic? He touched Rose. He felt her. He was shot. Rose was John. No, Rose wasn't John. John was John. John wore jumpers and had bags under his eyes and made really good tea and took really short showers. He was in the army. They didn't have an unlimited source of water.

That was a police box. From London. First installed a year after Bell created the device, no, they were out of commission, now, mostly. People used Help Points, now with those intercoms and the CCTV cameras. Mycroft was always watching.

"Time Lord technology," the Doctor explained, invading Sherlock's head where he wasn't _welcomed_ because this wasn't _real_ and he hated having no control over reality. It was sickening. "Bigger on the inside."

Rose fingered the scientist's sleeve, again, trying to get him to look at her. "I's okay, Sherlock. Tha's how most people react."

"How—"

"The TARDIS is transdimensional. Walking into her is walking into a separate dimension, though hers is very much connected to ours, which is why it doesn't cause a rift in time for her to exist. I'd love to explain the science to you, but I sense you have more questions."

Sherlock scrunched his nose. "No. No, I don't—just, stop talking. I…"

He took a step back, breathing deeply through his nose, then turned on his heel, looked back at the TARDIS one more time, and began to break into a sprint. Away from this. Away from it all of it. It didn't make _sense. _It was illogical, but there was proof and he _hated _that. He needed a rational explanation.

He needed to _think._

Rose looked after the consulting detective, obviously deciding whether or not to chase after him. She had that _look _on her features, where she knew something was wrong and she wanted to assist in anyway she could.

The Doctor loved that about Rose.

"Let him go," the Doctor told her, voice wise.

She stared at him for a swift moment that felt like ages, then shook her head and swayed resolutely. Her feet began to take her after Sherlock before she knew what she was doing.

"Sherlock!" she called after him, watching as his form disappeared past the next street, dodging the path of a boy on a bike.

She ran until her breath seized in her lungs.

Making it around a corner, she pushed off the side of a bookstore, as if the shove would give her more momentum to make it further. A flash of dark hair zipped into a doorway just out of sight. She caught it just as it was about to close.

Sherlock was breathing heavily, his usual silk voice a hoarse noise like a wheeze. He fell to his knees in front of a body in a dark brown pool of blood, clutching his chest loosely.

Rose stumbled and slumped against the doorframe, eyes wide before they fell closed. She heard him shuffling about and began to watch, not entirely sure how to cope with everything that just occurred, but still too focused on getting air to her lungs.

"Wha' happened?" she finally got out, seeing her—what was he? Her new friend?—sticking his hand into a dead man's shirt pocket as his fresh trousers mopped up the red liquid staining the floor. "Sherlock, wha—wha' happened?"

Retrieving a wallet from the deceased's pocket, Sherlock sorted through it, then claimed the notes tucked within for his own, pocketing what seemed like quite a bit of money.

Finally, he looked at her.

"We need to leave."


	4. Calm

Here we are.

* * *

><p><em>4.<em>

The only reason Sherlock Holmes would ever _fear_ a person or a concept or a theory was if it was a mixture of four out of five details: it could be proved, he didn't understand it, it was dangerous, there was no way to avoid it or it was illogical.

That's why he let himself break down in The Cross Keys. That's why he ran from the TARDIS.

Forcing his way into the small town motel he was staying at to shadow Fischer, he was planning to pack up the few personal items he stashed in his room, find Rose, and somehow convince her to leave with him. She was clearly brainwashed by the insanity of that odd, nameless man in the striped suit.

Just a man.

A man.

Sherlock saw many peculiar people in his lifetime. This was nothing different.

_But he wasn't just a man._

Sherlock's plans were immediately placed on hold after finding the man who checked him in shot and slain on the cream-coloured carpet. His body splayed unceremoniously over the ground, hazel eyes opened, though completely lifeless.

He didn't speak to the proprietor much (Sherlock noted he was the owner of the motel by the card he found in his wallet), as Sherlock didn't know an ample amount of German. Speaking several languages—French, Spanish, Italian and English—Sherlock considered himself a well-learned linguist. He thought about learning German in case a situation called for it in the future.

This suggestion was quickly dismissed. It would take up too much room and honestly, he hadn't the time.

_The Doctor was tall, an average size for a male, with chestnut hair that matched his suit and one eyebrow arched higher than the other. He appeared ultimately human, but the TARDIS, impossible in size, was proof enough, wasn't it?_

Of course he took the man's money. The proprietor was dead. What would he do with it, now?

"We need to leave," Sherlock informed the blonde woman, leaning forward, then rocking back before using the momentum to bring himself to his feet.

_The Doctor. What was that? A prefix to a name no one said or wouldn't tell him. That was curious. MD. Medical Doctor. John. Army Doctor. Army. War. Wounds. They brought him to a hospital when he was shot._

_PsyD. Doctor of Psychology. Psychosis. Drugs. The moor. A trick of the mind. Most likely conclusion._

"Wha' happened ta 'im?" Rose asked, suddenly feeling very small. Sherlock looked over the body once more, taking in the image of a stained button-up shirt with the strewn splotches of blood emanating from his chest, directly over his heart. A one-shot, instantaneous kill.

"He's dead," was a easy conclusion, as the detective felt not much more was necessary in order to make Rose understand the severity of their situation. He paused for a moment more, then stepped around the dead landowner, quick strides bringing him to the stairs and allowing him to ascend.

Sherlock couldn't help but muse over his first encounter with a body in John's presence with this interaction with Rose.

"_There's a woman lying dead," _John had pointed out to him, to where he replied:

"_Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go deeper."_

Now, that seemed the only detail significant enough to vocalize. A man was dead. Most definitely because of him.

_His eyes _had _betrayed him, before. At the moor. But, he knew what it felt like to be drugged and once he realised what was happening, he picked up on it quickly. The only remaining step was to figure out where it was being administered from and how the administrator was getting it into their bodies. He wasn't drugged on the TARDIS. His body was completely normal. Unfortunately._

Sherlock didn't even push his hands into his trousers because he knew it was senseless. The room key he was given wasn't on him. It was probably tossed along with his coat.

Giving himself a decent amount of space, Sherlock took a step backwards, then propelled himself toward the door, the heel of his foot plowing into the mechanism of the lock, right beside the door's handle. He could hear the harsh _wham-chink_ it made as the lock broke and hinges swung open, permitting access.

Rose's footsteps reached the top of the stairway.

"Tell me wha's goin' on!" She commanded, following him into his motel room. Sherlock began to hastily pick up his things, making quick mental notes to decide what and what not to bring. His laptop was the first priority.

"You found me near-death when you came across me, did you not?" the scientist inquired, not bothering with looking at her as he scrambled about. "What do you _think_ is happening?"

"Y'know wha' I mean! Why is someone afta' ya?"

Sherlock pulled his laptop case from the dresser holding the telly, then forced his computer inside. "Because a lot of people think I'm a very bad man and the people who made them believe that want it to stay that way."

_His body was so normal—physically edited so there wasn't even so much as a scar left over from where the bullet entered his body. That wasn't something he could ignore, no matter how impossible it was._

Remembering where he last left his phone charger, Sherlock wheeled around the neatly made up bed, then plucked the black cord from the wall, where it dangled in insentience.

That reminded him.

"How is my phone fully charged?" he asked, putting the item away in his computer case before looking at Rose expectantly.

"Wha'?" Rose started, clearly deep in thought, "Oh. The Doctor made it so th'TARDIS has this sorta… ene'gy renewal system. It recycles all the ene'gy it uses… or, well, th'ene'gy it passes through, then circulates it."

"Let me guess," Sherlock jeered, "_Time Lord_ technology."

The blonde shook her head, following him out the door as he slung the case over his shoulder. "Not exactly. Ysennian, actually. Bu' the Time Lords use simila' techniques."

_Ysennian, she said. He'd be impressed that Rose was still keeping up the façade about the Doctor if Sherlock himself wasn't slowly being convinced. Time Lord. It sounded so pretentious. To be the Lord of something was to own it, but a person couldn't own _Time. _He supposed it was a good thing this alien wasn't a person, then. Or was it?_

Half expecting to see Sebastian Moran appear in the street, Sherlock made his way out of the motel, Rose not far behind.

"Where ya goin'?"

He sensed she was having trouble keeping up without jogging, so he slowed down his pace marginally. "I didn't want to have to face him again, but I suppose we have no choice. We'll need to tell the alien it's not safe here. And that we're leaving."

"I could jus' call 'im," Rose informed. "He could 'elp you. 'Is ship could take you wherever ya wanna go."

"Of course it can."

"No, really. He'll give y'any of the proof ya need. 'E just wants t'elp you." Slipping her phone from her jeans pocket, she brought up the Doctor's number and raised the mobile to show Sherlock. "See?"

Sherlock was never one to ask for help. He didn't need it. He managed quite well on his own—taking down Fischer, and before him, Alexis Hamilton, and before her, Gale Messina. There were still two names just in his reach, but as he fell through and failed, nearly getting himself killed, _miscalculating_, he lost his trail.

Rodney Green and Sebastian Moran.

There could've been more. He didn't know. He'd already been on the hunt for over two years and though he made progress, there was still much work to be done. John was getting married; he was slipping away entirely. Everything Sherlock worked for was falling apart and it felt like the world was turning so fast, like time itself was becoming obsolete as he raced to beat the clock, but he was doomed, so doomed and lost and considering resorting to the things he once thought of as _good_, but John made them _bad, _but if John wasn't there, then it didn't matter…

And that's why he didn't object as Rose pressed send and called the Doctor. For once, he might've been in a little over his head.

Sherlock tuned out the conversation.

It wasn't long before they made it back to the TARDIS. The doors were shut and uninviting as it came into sight. Rose's hand brushed his own and he looked down at her skeptically before crossing his arm over his own chest to rest on the strap of the shoulder bag.

What the hell was he getting himself into?

"How can a box possibly be transportable?"

Rose pulled out the hidden necklace under her shirt. It was a key. "The same way it can be bigga' on th'inside." She unlocked the door. "I's alien."

Sherlock considered using that phrase as a joke at crime scenes. If someone didn't understand something—which was _always_, then it was probably alien.

That is, if he was ever allowed to work with the police, again. A sudden wave of nostalgia came over him. He even missed Anderson's stupidity.

Even though he saw the interior of the TARDIS once before, it was just as outrageous the second time. A rush of music hit him and he scrunched his noise at the sound, hearing the voice of the alien overshrouding the singer. The man in the suit was still in the console room, now sitting on the grated floor against the blue techo-mushroom. One leg extended, the other was folded against him and he had a plate resting atop his knee where half a sandwich lay. The other half was in his hand.

Sherlock could see the device the music was coming from—a small television with a music video—music he didn't recognize.

"Caaan you hold onto meee~" the alien sang loudly, putting the half-eaten portion of his meal back on the plate. He stood, placing the plate on a chair, then advanced toward the duo making their entrance. "Take my hand, Visoryu~!" Rose responded to the suit-man's outstretched hand and began to dance with him, moving from one foot to the other in tune with the beat.

What the hell were they doing?

Sherlock frowned and casually moved past them to the platform. Setting his bag down on the floor, he took a seat on the edge of the three-part chair and unzipped the laptop case.

Rose and the Doctor swayed and whirled and shook all the way from the front entrance, down the railed pathway and onto the grate. Sherlock managed to ignore them until he heard Rose's melodic laughter echo throughout the room and his eyes were on her as his fingers pried open his laptop. He typed in the password without looking.

Curiously, as the song was coming to a close, Sherlock glanced at the telly screen. A bulbous creature with a block-like arm rolled to one side of the footage and Sherlock furrowed his brow before glancing down at his computer, again.

He was damned. No doubt about it.

Bringing up his browser to check his e-mail, Sherlock noted his internet was loading instantaneously. Much better than in the motel room.

Thank science for small things.

Or… aliens?

Ah, well. It was still science, either way.

"I wouldn't use that in here," came the Doctor's voice as the room elapsed into what otherwise would've been silence.

Sherlock's brow arched. "And why's that…?"

"Spoilers."

Spoilers._ Time Lord. The future. Space ship. General relativity. Gravity as a geometric property of time and space (spacetime-continuum). Interference in fourth-dimensional travel._

"You're insinuating I can receive data from a future time, as your space ship is transdimentional?" Rose stood beside the Doctor, a bit of surprise coming to her features. He was picking up rather quickly.

"Yes. Which is—"

"I can find out where Moran is going to be."

"No, Sherlock, you can't—"

"Why not?"

The Doctor pursed his lips, looking at the detective like a disappointed parent would their child. "I think you know why."

The two men locked eyes for an instant and Rose felt like there was an entire conversation being passed via brainwaves between them, like all that ever was, is or could be was being stored in Sherlock's brain. He was a flash-drive, after all. One with unlimited space for data.

"I don't trust you," Sherlock told the Doctor, closing his laptop reluctantly.

"Do you trust Rose?"

"I don't see how that's relevant."

"I don't see how that's _irrelevant_."

Rose clicked her tongue. "Well. I'm gonna go get some crisps. Wan' anythin'? No? No? Okay." Taking a step away, they both looked at her and she smiled, then spun on her heel to head to the kitchen.

Sherlock's voice dropped. "Yes," he said in response to the alien, shoving his computer back inside its case so he could stand. He didn't like being in this lower position on the chair.

"Then you can trust _me._" The Doctor crossed his arms loosely. "We've met before, Sherlock. When you were just a child. Do you remember?"

"No."

This wasn't a lie. Sherlock remembered a lot of things, but his childhood was mostly marked in his memory by the negative family-related incidents and the grudges he held in their wake.

"You were just nine years old." Moving toward the chair, the Doctor leaned against it, hand curled around the highest part. His index finger beat against the cloth lightly. "So young and so alone." His gaze lifted from the floor to Sherlock's crystalline eyes. "Still are."

"Are you trying to impress me?"

"Not at all. But I've met you twice before now, Sherlock. And once was after this point in time. You were older."

Sherlock looked skeptical, and if he wasn't being persuaded by the proof, he would've scoffed. He nearly did.

The Doctor continued, "When we met that time, in your future and my past, you told me these exact words:

"Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter _how _improbable, _must_ be the truth."

"I came back, didn't I?"

"Yes. Why was that?"

Setting his jaw in thought, Sherlock looked away, down the hallway Rose disappeared into. He came because he was desperate and because Rose was the only person he'd seen in over two years he felt comfortable with. A part of him found hope in her, something he wasn't sure he could ever allow in his mind as a necessity. Now, it was prominent. He was _going_ to find Moriarty's crew and he was _going_ to make it back to John and he was _going _to go back to life like it was before.

There was contentment in that.

"You said you trust Rose," the Doctor nearly whispered, pupils locked onto the curly-haired man with his small bit of stubble coming in and his tired, tired eyes.

Sherlock seemed to snap back into focus. "I'm fond of her," he replied honestly.

"What do you mean _fond?_"

Skipping only a single beat, Sherlock shrugged. "Fond— having an affection or liking for."

The Doctor parted his lips, trying to read Sherlock expression, but there was little to tell. He cleared his throat, thinking of a way to respond, but Sherlock beat him to it.

"Are we going to leave anytime soon?"

"Oh! Right!" The Doctor pushed off of the chair and moved toward the console, flipping a switch and then pressing a button. Simple work, for now, as they didn't have an exact destination. Sherlock thought he felt the place move, but the cynic in him didn't want to believe it. "Where do you want to go? Anywhere in the entire galaxy! In any galaxy! Millions and millions of stars and planets and solar systems! Tyxon has blue rocks that float midair. And! And Hfeleli is mostly made of silver!"

Sherlock grunted and took his seat, again, slouching defiantly. "London, England."

He watched as the Doctor's expression fell for merely a moment, but his grin soon returned. "Love London! That's where I met Rose! Some of the greatest people are there!"

"And some of the most terrible," the detective countered, agitated by the alien's enthusiasm.

This caught the Doctor's attention. There was an obvious reason for Sherlock's negativity. As was stated before, Sherlock was always so alone—an outcast by his own race because he was too _smart_, too _quick_, too _brilliant_.

"Oh, Sherlock… What happened to you?"

"You tell _me_, alien. You're so immersed in keeping everyone happy—even myself, who's been nothing but bitter toward you. I don't care how I reflect on others and quite frankly, I don't plan to stick around after you get me where I need to be. How are you so sure _I'm_ not the otherworldly being?"

The Doctor let the folds in his forehead come together. "Weeell, I _have_ considered it. Do you happen to own a pocket watch?"

"_How_ is that relevant?"

"Is that just your way of saying 'you don't care?' Irrelevance is just a euphemism for _'stop being an idiot?_'"

Sherlock actually did roll his eyes, this time. "I just didn't understand the segue."

"Oh." Better to drop it and ask again when Sherlock was more open to the idea. "To London, then?"


	5. Droplet

Shorter than the last, but the next chapter will be relatively lengthy in comparison. It kinda has to be.

* * *

><p><em>5.<em>

To say 'travelling in the TARDIS was a bumpy ride' would be an understatement. Sherlock would compare it to a rollercoaster if the thought itself wasn't enough to make him sick. He hated rollercoasters.

Unable to help himself, the bright man with his ever-changing eyes glanced back inside the spaceship once he was out of it. The incredulity was beginning to fade. Soon enough he'd be speaking Elfish and eating space melons.

Rose explained to him, quite well actually, about the chameleon circuit. It was more appalling that no one noticed them spontaneously appearing out of thin air than it was they were travelling through the spacetime-continuum. The circuit absolutely fascinated Sherlock and reminded him of an experiment he conducted on two accounts to _blend_ into his surroundings. With the right clothes and the right paint, he could become any inanimate object. This technique was only developed over the past year's time, so he hadn't the chance to show John.

"Where we goin'?" Rose asked him as she presented a faint smile.

He wasn't yet accustomed to all the questions. Nearly forgetting what it was like when John first moved into 221B, with all his queries and attempted disputes, the detective clicked his tongue and looked down at her.

Her soft blonde hair had a wave to it, today. Soft? He figured it would be. It looked soft.

"I need to blend into the milieu. Make myself one with the crowds."

"Ya need a disguise."

The corner of Sherlock's lips quirked up in a half-smile. "_Precisely._ London doesn't exactly _like _me, to say the least. They all believe what they read in the papers. When more than fifty percent of the population believes fiction is verifiable, it becomes _fact_. And in that, they'll convince those who don't believe to change their minds. Time only magnifies the scandal."

Rose bit her bottom lip delicately. Sherlock was in a lot of trouble and she sincerely hoped she could help.

"How 'bout we buy you a wig? Or a new coat—oh! How 'bout a sweatshirt? I's nofin' like the coat you were wearin' in Germany."

Sherlock frowned at the thought. "I quite liked that coat. It was the closest thing I could find to my old one."

"It was cova'd in blood."

He didn't reply to that. She was right. If he didn't want to stand out on the London streets, he couldn't wear blood-stained clothes. No matter how cool it would be to possess something dyed with his own ichor.

The start to Sherlock's disguise was the deep brown contacts he wore. He kept them in his computer case (because why store them anywhere else when he would _always_ have his laptop?) and believed it pertinent to wear them out in the herd of Londoners. His hair was longer than he usually kept it and it danced ridiculously just over his shoulders, stubble also dotting his face to match.

"Why don't we just get a sweatshirt from the ship?" Oh _god,_ he was calling it _that_, now. Like it was completely normal.

"'Cause we're already down _'ere_, I have _money _and I 'aven't been in a shop for a while."

A quiet scoff leaving his lips, Sherlock carried on, opting to leave out their alternative for Rose's sake.

"'Ey, wha's that?" the woman asked, slowing her pace to a stop and causing Sherlock to follow suit.

"Mm?"

"Tha's a picture of ya," she elaborated, beginning in the direction of a bistro. That's when he finally realised what she was referring to.

His curiosity piqued, Sherlock followed along, quite attentive, taking in the details of the poster. Though, upon second consideration, he deemed it not a poster at all. Just a photograph of him printed in greyscale on a sheet of white computer paper. He was turning to look at the camera, probably just as he realised there was a lens on him, and appeared cold and serious.

Across the bottom half of the photograph bore the words, _I Believe in Sherlock Holmes_.

Rose let out a small noise of glee, like a portion of a laugh that was never quite finished. "Seems ta me not everyone hates ya."

The scientist scrunched his nose in distaste. "_Fans_," he stated, enmity flooding his low tones. Promptly, Rose smacked him on the arm with the back of her hand.

"Someone's on ya side. Don't be so bitta', Sherlock Holmes." She kept her voice low and deadly, wanting to make a point by saying his name, but not wanting anyone else to hear her say it.

This was fairly effective, but the scowl didn't leave his face as his eyes shifted from hers to the paper, again. It'd been two years since his 'death.' Why would anyone still care unless to speak ill of him?

Rose gripped his arm, jerking her head directionally to the side. "C'mon. Le's go."

Allowing the woman to lead him, he placed a downtempo on his usually brisk strides, maintaining a self-effacing quality to his walk. It was outstandingly unlike him. If he wasn't so caught up in his own thoughts, he would've boasted to impress in this regard—his acting skills were marvelous, were they not?

Sherlock was ever-stuck on the idea that Rose was such a contrast to his own finicky, brusque nature. How was it possible he was encompassed in acquaintance with her after such a short period of time?

There were too many questions on the matter and much to be amassed at a later time. This was the same for the fan's notice. For now, he'd focus solely on proper attire to 'fit in' with the typical Londoner. Rose fit in quite well with her dark blue t-shirt and her black denim jeans and her white, button down cardigan. She had a yellow flower made of cloth in her hair, which pleased Sherlock in the oddest of ways. He wondered if she did that on purpose.

The way she was leaning into him as she walked and squeezed his upper arm with her own, interlinked and dragging him along, pointed to an overbearing yes.

As they walked into a thrift shop, Sherlock brought to light the Doctor's words. _What do you mean, _fond_?_

Of course their definitions were separate. Sherlock could tell by the alien's voice. He was protective and possessive and alarumed by the thought. Sherlock only meant he didn't mind Rose's presence. Which, as those who've met Sherlock knew, was saying a lot.

It was clear the Doctor knew Sherlock didn't like him. That's why he told Rose he had to see an old friend instead of tagging along, today. How long had Rose travelled with the alien?

_Fond— having an affection or liking for._

John was getting married. He was getting married and there was nothing Sherlock could do to stop it.

No.

That wasn't true. There was quite a bit he could do to stop it.

But, he wasn't going to.

John probably found some average, dull woman with normal mousey-brown hair and a set daily routine that accounted for walking her two dogs down the same path every day and blowdrying her hair and watching telly. So mundane.

But if he was happy enough with her to marry her, there had to be something striking about the woman. John wouldn't marry just _anyone_.

And that's when Sherlock decided. He wasn't going to interfere. In fact, he would make sure John never felt the need to move back into 221B or that he owed Sherlock anything—anything at all. Because he absolutely did not. John deserved to be happy and normal and _safe_.

And Rose was the key. The only one acceptable enough to play the part.

She held up a grey sweatshirt with _BURBERRY_ across the front. Sherlock shrugged. "You're the expert," he told her, giving a small smile, which she easily returned. Rose pulled it off the hanger and unzipped the front, then handed it to him before placing the hanger back on the rack.

Sherlock slipped the cloth over his arms and torso, pulling down the hem to adjust. It fit nicely enough.

"Unless ya wanna look at any of th'other ones?"

"I'm not very picky."

"Somehow I doubt that."

He let out a breath of amusement and winked as he began to remove the sweatshirt. Taking it up to the counter, he waited in line behind two other people and Rose pulled money out of her jeans pocket.

"You should stay with me," Sherlock told her when he took the money from her hand, all thank-yous set aside. He kept his eyes on hers, shifting from one to the other, gaze steady and pressing, as if the subject at hand was a matter of life and death.

Rose had to look away.

"Wha' d'ya mean?" she inquired softly, hands fidgeting nervously with the trim of her royal blue tee.

"When I move back into my flat." They approached the counter and handed over both cloth and money at the man's request of _"Eighteen pounds, please."_

Rose took the bag with a "Thanks," and gave Sherlock the oddest look, taken aback by his offer. "You mean move in with ya?"

Well, _obviously._ What else could he possibly mean by that?

"Essentially, yes. Problem?"

"No, I just—tha's kinda sudden. What brought this on?"

When they were outside, she pulled the sweatshirt from the bag and handed it to him. She probably should've told the man she didn't need a bag at all. Distractions.

"It's the first step, is it not?"

"Ta what?"

"To initiating a relationship."

That was the _first_ step? Rose's jaw dropped, lacking a proper way to reply to that. He was saying he was interested and, not only that, but he wanted something serious right at the start.

"Wow." Sherlock rose a brow at this response, tucking his hands into the pockets of the sweatshirt as he put it on again. "Ya really don't beat around the bush, do ya?"

"That would be pointless."

Sherlock reached over his shoulder to pull up his hood and hid away his black curls under tones of slate and charcoal. This was more difficult than he anticipated, but she seemed to be considering it, at the very least.

"Wha' 'bout the Doctor?"

Now, this was the question he dreaded. She was the only practical choice for a partner, if he was going to have one. The only person he'd met that John would see and accept as worthy of the love of Sherlock Holmes (though whether or not John believed Sherlock was capable of love was debatable) and the only woman who held his interest long enough to engage him in any form of the word. Apart from Irene Adler, but Sherlock wasn't going to risk playing a game with someone who knew how to play right back.

Rose was clever, but not _too _clever, and she wasn't afraid to put Sherlock in his place. She was loyal, and though he quite liked that trait, it might just be the one that made this whole plan fall through.

"He's an alien. What do you have to offer him?"

As the words spilled from his mouth, he panicked and looked over at the blonde, expecting an irrational reaction.

She surprised him.

Rose swallowed hard at Sherlock's words, facing the truth in them. She was in love with the Doctor. She knew that for fact and it would never stop being true. He was going to say it that day when they parted for what they both thought was the final time. But he didn't have the chance.

And he hadn't said it since. They flirted, sure. On more than one occasion. Often, really. But he never kissed her and never held her hand and never told her he loved her.

Sarah Jane was left behind. She would be, too, even if he denied it. Because she'd get old and worn and tired. And he'd have to move on.

"Nothin'. I know. But I told him I wouldn't leave him."

Sherlock wasn't sure if she was turning him down or still considering it, so he decided he needed to steer clear of the topic and not soon later, he found the perfect ammunition.

"There's another one of those posters," Sherlock pointed out, deciding on a whim to take her hand. She tried to take his the other day, perhaps just for comfort, but as his offer was out in the open, he hoped she understood there were underlying intentions in his actions.

She didn't avoid him and their fingers interlaced loosely. "Tha' one's not the same," she told him, confused as to why he believed them to be similar.

"It's John."

It was, in fact, a picture of John, also in greyscale, like the first. But his eyes were drawn over fiercely in black pen and at the bottom, where it was supposed to read _Fighting John Watson's War_ it said, in scrawled writing, _richard brook was innocent._

The detective scowled in dread.

Rose tried to recall what she read about Richard Brook in that article, but it didn't come back to her. "I's okay, Sherlock." She pulsed his hand with a reassuring squeeze.

"No," he let out softly. _No,_ this was certainly _not_ okay. People could taunt him and make him into something he wasn't if they wanted, but defacing John—portraying him as something that wasn't worthy of notice—_disrespecting him _in such a way… that was _not_ okay. "John is not the figurehead for my mistakes, for starters. There is no need to bring him into this at _all_, but that's not what—I can't _believe_ someone would—actually yes, I can believe it. This is _ridiculous_." Sherlock moved forward in a swift glide and tore paper from brick, the sound of the sheet shredding now on the wind.

Balling the paper up in annoyance, he felt Rose's hand on his upper arm and looked away, not wanting her to see the emotions he so often kept hidden. His cool demeanor feel back into place that very instant, but Rose brought him into a tentative hug, well aware he was trying to hide it.

The Doctor did this same thing when they first met. Hid everything to deal with on his own.

Sherlock didn't respond to the embrace. He wasn't one for physical encounters—hell, even holding her hand was too much for him. But it was necessary at the time. He stayed stiff for a few seconds more, expecting her to release him. When she didn't, he finally relaxed minutely.

The eyes of the sociopath darted restlessly from wall to concrete to fence to chair to doorway and car, down the streets of London. He inhaled deeply.

A woman stood not that far from them, looking at her phone. She wasn't moving and she was dressed quite nicely, like she'd just come from a business meeting. But she hadn't, had she? No. At a distance, he couldn't pick up much as far as details went, however, there was one aspect of her outfit that brought attention to her. She wore black trainers without laces. Obviously not suitable attire for a meeting. Her hair was slightly wind-tossed, so clearly she hadn't been inside all day. Not to mention the fact that she was lacking a briefcase or purse. The only item he could see on her person was her phone.

The moment Rose let Sherlock go, the well-dressed blonde woman (in her early forties) lifted her gaze and stared right at him, lingering for too long, _watching_ second after second, _taking him in._

"We have to go," Sherlock told her, stopping her from her unanswered questions and _'are you alright?'_s.

He saw as the elder woman brought her mobile higher to capture the pair in a photograph.

Too little, too late.


	6. Drizzle

Sorry for the delay. Had quite the writer's block in here and had fun with my April Fool's prank, but here's the real chapter.

* * *

><p><em>6.<em>

If Moran was onto him, he would expect Sherlock to return to Baker Street.

If Moran knew him a fraction as much as Moriarty did, he'd know Sherlock knew what he expected.

And if Moran knew him a portion more, he'd know Sherlock would go there despite this.

After fleeing from the woman with the camera phone, the detective was well aware he had to continue keeping a low profile, even on the run. He took Rose by the arm and led her to the only safehouse he would ever license as both home and personal sanctuary.

The fact that he was gone for two years was irrelevant.

Mrs. Hudson was in the Speedy's doorway, holding the door open with her backside as she leaned against it. The pair were coming from her opposite, so she didn't see them approaching. Honestly, she wouldn't have noticed their presence even if the two were in her line of sight. Sherlock looked haggard and worn. Tired. _Older_. He wasn't the image of _her_ Sherlock—the one that ran and strode with confidence, who left science experiments in the fridge and made racket so early in the morning. Though, the tired bit always fell into the category.

And without John, it was like the stoney man with the piercing eyes (currently covered with brown gel irises) was an ever living ghost.

He could be nothing more after falling to his death, after all.

"Well, that's just gonna hafta be the end of things, don'tcha think?" the elder woman asked someone inside the café, and Sherlock watched as the arm of another female came into view. As they neared, slowly, her whole form was visible.

_She was a new employee—her uniform top was crisp at the sleeves and her apron was pristinely ochre—and she was young, in her late teens or on the cusp of her early twenties. _

"I don't know. He might make it another season if she's going to try to convince him to, well, stay."

_Her voice was muted and lighter on the harder consonants than allotted for normal speech, but she sounded content and engaged. She was comfortable with Mrs. Hudson, where she was usually shy and soft-spoken._

Sherlock slowed, Rose at his side. She glanced side-long at him, expecting him to say something. He'd been silent for a while now, after her pressing inquiries and his rough _"I need to _think_" _as they took off, away from the thrift store.

"You know where the trash bags are, sweetheart?"

"Oh, yes. Marcy showed me."

Rose prodded at him, always uncertain with his spontaneity and lack of explanations. "Sherlock?" she asked, frowning faintly.

Her single word ceased the women's conversation and the elder of the two turned slowly toward Rose's voice, her vision intent on stopping at the source, but pausing at Sherlock, instead. It took her a long moment to let his form register in her mind, but when it did, she broke into a perplexed expression and soon after, a wide grin.

The Speedy's girl froze as she observed a woman much advanced in years and a tall man bedecked with a grey hoodie move toward each other for a firm, cordial embrace. Rose caught her eye and she quickly looked away, even though the blonde offered a small wave in greeting. "I have to get back to work," she said quietly, then took off, and even though it was directed at Mrs. Hudson, the woman wasn't paying her any attention.

"God, Sherlock," she breathed, unable to let him go, even though he seemed finished with the hug. She only tightened her grip and he reapplied his pressure in response. "I _knew_ you weren't dead. I just _knew_ it."

"No, you didn't."

"I had faith."

"Faith is unreliable. It lacks illustrative proof."

Mrs. Hudson finally pulled away to look over the woman he'd brought along. "Who's this?"

Rose smiled and reached out a hand for hers, which Mrs. Hudson took and kissed the back of in a swift movement. "Rose Tyler," Rose stated introductively. Was this Sherlock's mother? "I's a pleasure ta meet ya."

"Ah, Rose," Sherlock started, gesturing then to the other woman, "This is Mrs. Hudson. My landlady."

So, not his mother. She seemed a bit elderly, anyhow.

Mrs. Hudson held her arms to herself, resting her head in her palm as she regarded her boy. "You're moving back in, then?"

"Of course I am." His brow furrowed and he leaned toward her inquisitively. "Why wouldn't I?"

"I put the flat up for rent, Sherlock. A few months back."

Tears shimmered over her eyes, the soft glistening of drops that would likely never fall. Her first fingers were both at her eyelids simultaneously and she wiped upward, forcing the liquid to cease. She watched as the flicker of betrayal crossed Sherlock's features—the aftermath of his death must've come as a rude awakening to him.

"You've sold it?"

"No. No one's bought. I upped the price." She laughed, but there was little humour behind it under the weight of her actions. Mrs. Hudson never gave up on Sherlock. She knew he was okay. Sherlock was always okay.

At the first news of his fall, Mrs. Hudson had a break down. She hadn't cried like that for as long as she could remember—her entire body betraying everything she wanted to feel or think. Everything she was. Strength wasn't something she harboured physically (not anymore, anyway), but mentally, she was tenacious. It took mountains of sorrow and dismay to bring her to her knees.

But she was very easily touched. Sherlock touched her heart.

"Ya didn't really wanna get ridda' it," Rose offered, reaching for Sherlock's hand as she realised they'd parted long ago. She would speak to him through this act as he spoke to her—the simple act of interlacing her fingers with his.

"I suppose not." Mrs. Hudson smiled fondly at the girl, then gestured for them to follow her into 221B. She wanted to hold Sherlock and never let go, but he was back, now. All was right with the world, just for the moment, even when it was in shambles. "Does John know you've returned?" She led them toward the kitchen. It was getting late, almost seven o'clock, now, and she doubted they had dinner.

"No."

"Why not? He should've been the first one you contacted. I know you prolly had a good reason for doing what you did, young man, but that doesn't mean you can leave your friends in the dark."

Sherlock grunted quietly. "I'm sure you'd rather be in the dark than have a bullet lodged in your cranium."

With a gasp, Mrs. Hudson brought her hand to her heart, stopping in the kitchen doorway. "Is that a threat, Sherlock? Oh, dear."

"Of course not. I only have a desire to protect you, Mrs. Hudson. Not the reverse." Dragging Rose along into the kitchen, he noticed she'd been relatively quiet during his exchange with his landlady. Despite having only known her for a short time, he could read her like an open book. She was being polite. A quite intelligent girl, she could tell it'd been some time since the two of them spoke and though she didn't feel like a conversational third-wheel, she wanted to fade into the background.

It was important for a man like Sherlock to connect with people he cared about. Maybe he'd stop being so damn abrasive all the time.

"This is a nice place you have here," she directed at Mrs. Hudson, summoning her role as context mediator—one she'd picked up from the Doctor.

The curly-haired woman gave a genuine smile and eased back into the comfort of Sherlock's well-being. It was senseless to argue with him, even if it felt exceptional knowing it was still possible to do so. "I quite like it, myself. Tell me, where did you and Sherlock meet?"

Mrs. Hudson tugged the refrigerator open and slid out a glass tray with leftovers—ham, potato and broccoli casserole. Sherlock recalled the first time John ever tried it. He said, _'three things that are great alone, but terrible together.'_ Sherlock didn't agree, but he didn't eat it that day. Case.

"I's sorta…" Rose looked at him, eyes narrowing in deep thought, "complica'ed."

"Things are always complicated with Sherlock," she agreed, not pushing the blonde to say anything more. Rose was grateful. "So, what do you do? Are you employed?"

"Yes, what _do_ you do?" Sherlock inquired, steepling his fingers against his lips. "What, exactly, do you partake in with the alien? Technology surveillance? _Espionage_?"

"No. No, nothin' like that."

"What're you on about, Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson handed him a plate, freshly steaming from twenty-two seconds in the microwave.

He didn't direct his reply to her question and didn't regard the plate before him. "Then, _what_?"

"We jus' travel. We go around, sometimes ta Earth, sometimes other places. He 'elps people. And I help 'im 'elp people." She spoke, "thank you" as Sherlock's landlady set food before her as well and took the fork the woman offered before indulging with the first bite.

The scientist grunted and leaned back in his chair as his arms folded, radiating petulance.

"Don't be such a child," Mrs. Hudson scolded, wiping her hands on a paper towel when she was through washing her hands. "Come now, eat up! You've got no meat on those bones."

As an hour ticked by, Sherlock became so overtaken by his thoughts, he dissolved from the conversation Rose and Mrs. Hudson were engaged in on a musical artist from _Britain's Got Talent _dating a year or so back. They spoke about television and redecoration and Rose's mother and Mrs. Hudson's late aunt who purchased a year's worth of frozen pumpkin pie a week before her death.

Sherlock was fixed on Moran.

Sebastian Moran left a note intended for Fischer's eyes only at the deceased man's residence. After quite a bit snooping around, the scientist came upon it and read the scrawled handwriting of Moriarty's most trusted hitman.

_Armin_

_Holmes is looking for us. He's on a mission to destroy. I suspect you're next. If spotted, kill on sight._

_Seb_

Sherlock still wasn't sure why this message was not conveyed via electronic media, but he was grateful a clue fell in his grasp. This made everything so much easier.

A bit later into the night, Rose declared she was growing tired and asked when they were heading back to the TARDIS.

"We're not," Sherlock informed her, knees pulled up to his chest to centre himself. Centering his core was the only meditative technique that worked for him. "You can sleep in my room if you're fatigued."

Rose opened her mouth to retort, but the thought didn't plague her as much as it should've, so she obeyed and he showed her to his room, assuring her he'd be sleeping on the couch (if he got to sleep at all). There was much work to be done.

He zipped up his sweatshirt and flipped up the hood before heading out into the chilly night and made his way for the TARDIS, head low, but eyes watching everything cautiously.

Moran made it very clear he knew Sherlock was alive and on the hunt. If that woman was enlisted by the assassin to get rid of him or, at the very least, drive him from his home once more, the detective needed to be on red alert.

It took him a little over forty minutes round trip to pick up his computer case from the TARDIS. The door was slightly ajar when he arrived, which made him uneasy. He didn't want to confront the Doctor. Not tonight.

Thankfully, the alien wasn't in sight and his pack was right where he left it beside the console room chairs.

Back at the flat, Sherlock scrambled through his side pouch in his computer bag and found the note to Fischer.

His phone buzzed understatedly.

[February 8th, 2:31AM]  
>[From +44 151 692 3822] Where are you, now? Any progress?<p>

[February 8th, 2:31AM]  
>[To +44 151 692 3822] I should ask you that, myself. Where have you been?<p>

Finding his magnifying glass lodged in the cushions of the couch, he brought it to the bathroom to clean it properly with disinfectant. The place was cleared out for the most part, only the basics left. He wondered where most of his belongings were sent to.

No luck with the disinfectant, he used hand soap, instead.

Sherlock wiped his hands down with a towel and went back to his chair in the main room.

[February 8th, 2:33AM]  
>[From +44 151 692 3822] I had a client.<p>

[February 8th, 2:34AM]  
>[To +44 151 692 3822] That took up multiple hours of your time?<p>

Using his (somewhat restricted) knowledge in the area of graphology, he studied the scratch and held the magnifying glass over the specimen to analyse both writing and the make of the paper itself.

_The pressure of crossed 'T's decreased from right to left and no smudges were marked by the brush of hand against paper; right handed. Breaks in connections between letters in spontaneous form; intuitive, adaptable. Writing low to the line, small capitals and large tails; interest in material things, high sex drive, enthusiasm for productivity._

[February 8th, 2:36AM]  
>[From +44 151 692 3822] The minimum time allotted for my customers is two hours. Sometimes, I stay around for days.<p>

The morning came sooner than Sherlock anticipated. There weren't enough hours in the day to track down a disreputable hired assassin. Not when he knew you were tracking him.

"Have you made a decision?" Sherlock asked Rose as they walked into St. Barts, using the side entrance.

[February 8th, 10:02AM]  
>[To Molly] Are you working, today?<p>

"A decision 'bout what?" The blonde smiled at him in interest, hands swinging back and forth as she walked and a slight skip in her step. She slept so well last night and all she could feel was positivity coursing through her. The detective's lips wavered for a moment in a smirk, but he managed to keep himself composed.

"Staying with me permanently."

"Ya were serious about that?"

"I'm always serious."

Rose smiled with her tongue to the side, between her teeth, but she didn't properly reply. "Right."

"Is that a yes?"

He regarded as phone as it called his attention in his hand where he held it in his hoodie pocket.

[February 8th, 10:03AM]  
>[From Molly] Yes. Did you need me to look at something?<p>

Sherlock knew Molly had a lot of questions, but was avoiding asking them. They hadn't spoken in days.

"I… want to. Sorta. I jus' don't know if I should."

[February 8th, 10:03AM]  
>[To Molly] No. Thank-you for responding in a hasty manner. I will be there shortly.<p>

The scientist held open the door for her and allowed her entrance, watching the woman as she entered the hallway to the morgue. The hospital was quiet this morning, though he could hear a baby crying all the way from the waiting room. "What do I have to say to convince you?"

"I's not what you're not sayin'," she admitted, feeling her face growing warm, but not from embarrassment. From wariness and hesitancy on the subject. "I like you, Sherlock. An' I wanna 'elp you. I just dunno if I want to _be_ with you, like that."

"You're uninterested."

"I… didn't say that. I said I _dunno_ if I'm interested."

[February 8th, 10:05AM]  
>[From Molly] Wait, you're here?<p>

Sherlock pocketed his phone again and dropped the subject with Rose, not bothering to reply to Molly, either, since they were just now entering her domain.

Molly started, jumping the slightest bit as the door opened and she clutched her clipboard a degree tighter.

"Sh-Sherlock," she said, sounding astonished.

"Hello, Molly."

"You're here."

Finding it inane to reply to such an obvious statement, he looked to Rose with a tilt of his head. "Rose, Molly. Molly, Rose."

"Hello," Molly told her with a small wave, wiggling her fingers, though her wrist stayed firmly in place.

"'Ey there. Sherlock's told me a bit about you."

"Has he?" She giggled softly, feeling flattered.

Their small talk was uninteresting. "Molly. I need a microscope."

The brunette promptly put her clipboard down on the table and moved to the smaller of the two in the room, pulling a slide with a blood sample from the stage as she slipped it from under the clips. Setting it to the side, she looked at the microscope once more, then to Sherlock, grinning at his presence. "You can use this one. It's all set up, already."

He nodded and dragged a stool from the end of the table to seat himself by the device and drew from his pocket the note to Fischer.

"What're you helping Sherlock with?" Molly asked sweetly, striding over to a body she was surveying before they entered to pull the body bag back over it. She didn't want to disturb her guest.

"Everythin'," Rose replied. "I'm really jus' 'ere for moral support—I mean, not tha' 'e needs it. I'm a second pair of eyes. Two pairs is betta' than one, right?"

"Oh, definitely. What're you two looking for, now?"

"Jus' some bad people. I dunno if ma friend I came here with would approve of it, but Sherlock thinks they need to… well, be disposed of. And from wha' I've heard, I dunno if I mind it. I jus' wanna 'elp."

Molly frowned a bit, but tilted her head. "Well, if Sherlock thinks it's the right thing to do…" She didn't want to finish that sentence out loud. It made her feel terrible thinking about it, but she believed in her friend above anything. He had to know what he was doing. "Well, my boyfriend will be here in a bit. I wasn't expecting you two. He was going to take me out for lunch."

This caught Sherlock's attention and he looked up from the microscope for a moment, scrunched his nose, then went back to his work.

_Carbonless copy paper dirtied with sebum, from both himself and the penman, and perhaps the messenger. Nondescript. Fingerprints cannot be analysed._

"You have lunch this early? How long have you been here?"

"Since six."

_C__3__H__8__O__3__. Glycerin. Traces of steric acid. Pharmaceutical products, most likely lotion or hair-care use._

"Are you tired?"

"Not particularly."

Sherlock clicked his tongue and drew away from the microscope. "We have a bit to go on, but not as much as I'd like. I still haven't a clue where Moran is." Tugging at his hair lightly, he felt entirely at a loss. If he _saw_ Moran, he'd know it, now, but that was the problem. How could he _see _something he couldn't _find_?

Clearly the woman with the camera phone was the only option. She was _certainly _in London and had not one, but two eyes out for Sherlock Holmes.

"You'll find him, Sherlock," Molly affirmed. "Maybe you could ask the IBISH community if they've seen anything?"

Sherlock wrinkled his brow. "IBISH?"

"You…?" The mortician glanced between her friend and the blonde woman, meeting equally intrigued expressions from both. "You don't know what it is?"

"Obviously not."

"Oh, well… It's, it well, it stands for _I Believe In Sherlock Holmes_. They go around and put up posters all over the city. All around England, really."

Rose perked up. "Like th'ones we saw when we bought ya sweatshirt."

"They're all over the place," Molly concurred, "And they're pretty well informed. I know a few of the members. Well," she laughed, "I suppose I _am _one of them."

The door to the morgue clicked and swayed open. "Morning, Molly," came a familiar voice from the doorway and Sherlock darted a glance in the man's direction, mouth opening as the familiarity of the male caught him unawares.

The two stared at each other for a long moment.

"How are—"

"There are many possibilities, Lestrade. I do hope you'll be more vigilant next time."

"Sherlock, I am so—"

"No need for apologies, Inspector. I don't work well with sentiment."

Though Greg backed down and said not another word on the matter, he couldn't express how relieved he was knowing Sherlock was still alive.


	7. Steady

This is a fast-paced chapter.

* * *

><p><em>7.<em>

Greg felt terrible about the things that happened to Sherlock. It was evident in the death of the light in his eyes as he realised the detective was alive, despite all the odds. He wasn't the kind of man to anger easily—he had two daughters and they taught him both discipline and restraint. He was always a collected man, but his girls refined him.

Sherlock, though, was a constant test of his forbearance. An unstable part of Greg cracked in the knowledge of Sherlock's survival and he'd gotten much too turbulent from the start. Sherlock shooting down his apology was the only straw necessary to bring things to a quick-paced stop.

"_Where have you _been?_ I know you've had to deal with _a lot_, but you should've told us you were alright! John's been completely rewritten, Sherlock. He's not anything like the man I used to know!"_

And Molly soon made herself the bullseye for target practice.

"_He had to, Greg. Please calm down. He's been alright this whole time and needed to sort things out. You wouldn't believe the amount of stress he's already under. Just—"_

"_Did you know about this?"_

"_Yes, but—"_

"_You _knew_ and you didn't say a _word_? Knowing how John reacted? How we all—" His gaze was on Sherlock again. "You—I can't believe you…"_

It wasn't but a few seconds more until he fled the room. Fled the building. Fled facing two years of angst and regret and self-doubt.

And now Sherlock sat in a cab on his way back to Baker Street, leaning away from Rose in a manner that spoke levels of immaturity. This was his way of pouting.

"Sherlock," Rose started, fingers running delicately down the side of his sleeve to grab his attention.

He turned to her and began to scratch over-dramatically at the dark hairs on his face, over his chin and cheeks. "I need to shave. How long has it been since I did that? I was out a few days and I haven't had the time to do anything since then—that's not true, I had the time last night, but I didn't do it. Why didn't I do it?"

"Sherlock—"

The man's eyes were on her and he stopped, dropping his hands to his lap, then slipped the note from his pocket.

"Whoever wrote this wears scented hand lotion. I'd go on a tangent about the many different brands or shampoos it could be as really, molecularly, it's all the same, but it smells strongly of shea butter—you know," he circled his wrist, the paper making ovals in the air, "the cream kind people usually use when their hands are obscenely dry, usually to the point of cracked skin and those little white lines—"

"Sherlock."

"His hands didn't _have _to be cracked. I just never imagined Sebastian Moran as the kind of person to use _hand cream_. It's—"

"Why are y'avoidin' John?"

The detective's lips ceased their rambling, morphing instead into a scowl at her conclusion. "What?"

"John," she repeated, "Ev'ryone keeps sayin' ya should tell 'im ya're alive, but y'aven't. Why not?"

Clicking his tongue, the detective shook his head. Rose hadn't agreed to staying with him permanently. How was he supposed to face John? He couldn't come across desperate—like he needed John in his life to be a fully-fleshed being—or he'd put the army veteran in a state of indecision.

He _did _need John. All of this, all this chaos and retribution was solely for him. John was invaluable and needed to be protected from all harm.

Sherlock included.

And if he was completely honest with himself, he didn't want to face the possibility of John rejecting him from the start. Because John cared. John cared too much. Depression could lead to anger and indignation.

"Stay with me," Sherlock told her, and she had to double take to understand his message even as he clarified. "Stay with me and I'll see John."

"Wha' kinda requirement's that?"

"_Please_." Because it was always, _always_ effective.

The blonde sighed quietly to herself, drawing her attention to her left hand as she examined a portion of her nail where the coral-coloured paint was chipped.

She only glanced over when she felt Sherlock's fingers through her tresses as he shifted in the cab's seat and soon his face was much too close for normal conversation and he was growing nearer centimetre by centimetre and it was killing her because all she could do was glance down at his lips, knowing exactly where he was aiming, closer and breathy and _oh so warm._ She met him, finishing through with the gap between their mouths as her heart stopped in her chest and she had to swallow before her lips could part sufficiently.

He didn't stay long, though. There was no climatic exchange or life-changing euphoria. He didn't tear her clothes off in the back of a moving vehicle like she imagined he would (it was the look in his eyes) or force his tongue down her throat domineeringly, _controlling_ (the square of his shoulders).

Sherlock just sat back in his seat and Rose shivered lightly, eyes closing, trying to will the images away.

"Alright. I'll stay."

The detective nodded, an unreadable expression on his features. Leaning forward, he rest on the grey of the cabbie's front seat chair. The man had turned the volume of the radio up, ignoring them entirely. Time to change their course.

"Take us to the Docklands. Hertsmere Road."

Sherlock couldn't stop imagining Greg in the forefront of his mind. Posture offensive. Crazed.

He wondered if John would react similarly to his return. But, he and John… they had much deeper roots to their affinity which engrossed them wholly in each other. There wasn't one without his greater half, as they truly were two halves with a greater whole. John made him better in every aspect of the word. He liked to think he made John better, too.

But maybe Sherlock didn't know the man, anymore. Two years was agonizing. A selfish flicker of his subconscious hoped it was painful for John, too. Just to prove it, just for a second, that John wanted to be with Sherlock. That Sherlock brought him to his greatest extent of completion.

No.

He couldn't think like that.

John was something just out of reach, now. He could accept it, as long as the man was still in his grasp. Some of the time.

He'd come over for tea and to watch ridiculous telly. Ask about Sherlock's cases, though he had to be home before dinner. And eventually he and the woman would have children (that's what people did, after all) and there would be less time for Sherlock in his life.

It was alright.

Sherlock and Rose were a comfortable medium.

He understood she was little in the eyes of her hero and she was blind to his intentions, but acquiesced in all the mysteries defining the Great Sherlock Holmes. People were always dazed by him, that way.

The newspapers slayed a man, but it was the individual who revived him after the Fall. Fact and myth to be blurred eternally.

He supposed Moriarty never expected that.

Then again, Moriarty never expected most of Sherlock's implementation.

Rose was leaning against his form, hair splayed over his shoulder as their cab slowed to stagnancy.

He paid the cab fare and helped her out the door.

"John's flat should be on the left, here," he told her, still prudent enough to mask emotions. Sherlock never had a care for them, but suddenly they were upon him and they were nervous and itching to be regarded if only for a moment's time. He hadn't a moment to spare, so behind lock and key they went.

Surely, they could've knocked and Rose _had_ recommended it, but this was _John's_ residence (the woman was irrelevant) and John wouldn't mind. John knew Sherlock to do far more peculiar things.

"Are they home?" Rose asked, but Sherlock soon found lock-picking the door unnecessary as it was already unlatched for their entrance.

Sherlock looked her way and his voice was low despite his previous thought process on John's acceptance of his breaking-and-entering agenda. "It appears so."

A curly, dark-haired woman's attention was on them.

She was sitting in a chair, mug to her lips and an envelope in her hands (several others in her lap)—frozen. Eyes on the duo in the doorway.

"…Hello?" she started, eyes wide. Her mocha hair sprung lightly as she set her mug down and left her seat, the envelopes falling to the ground without a care. "Who are you? What are you doing?"

_Silver ring embedded with small—or, adequately sized—diamonds on the left hand—engagement. Tendency to arch feet, arched inset—prior experience in dancing, ballet, though not overly extensive (or perhaps not recent?) as the weight of her bearing was more firm than airy. Hair and makeup perfected, though still dressed in nightwear—prepped for work in two or so hours._

"Mary," Sherlock started easily with a nod of his head, moving to make his way further into the flat.

The woman squeaked quietly at the sound of her name and swiped a book off the couch before circling around it to face him. "D-don't move any closer! How do you know my name?"

Sherlock rose a brow at her, eyes drifting to the book she held high to threaten him with._ Nineteen Minutes, _he read.

"What are you going to do? Throw poor literature at me?"

Mary sucked in a breath through her teeth. "John!" She screeched, turning her head in the direction of the hallway. "John! Help!" Sherlock debated moving toward her to silence her, but she'd only be startled further, so he allowed her to call, taking a step back.

Rose held her tongue as well, but she clutched onto Sherlock's sleeve and took him yet another step toward the door from whence they came.

The scientist could hear footsteps hurrying to his right and he kept his eyes on the pathway, seeing John emerge from another room. He seemed startled and his eyes were wild with worry at the tone of Mary's voice, but there was a hint of skepticism. Mary must've had arachnophobia or something equally absurd.

The doctor's sight drifted from Sherlock and Rose to his fiancée. It took only a fraction of a second for his focus to lay on Sherlock, again.

John sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, stumbling back before he ran into the buffet up against the wall. "Jesus," he muttered gruffly, gripping the wood of the table.

Sherlock was frail and drained of colour entirely, unshaven and long-haired, with dark circles his most striking feature. No matter how many times John was on the street and believed a man to be the one before him now—no matter what people said or who tried to make him believe they were him—this was unmistakably Sherlock Holmes.

The one who'd leapt from a hospital and plunged to his death.

John played with theories for a long time, trying to decipher codes that were never left and veering in and out of acceptance of the death of his best friend. Eventually, it became impossible to pay mind to that miniscule alert in the depths of his heart that begged for Sherlock to be alive, _craved_ for him to have done something so ridiculously selfish like _live_.

All those little testimonies were faded now, but here stood a figure, an _impression_, something so _unbelievable, _it couldn't be real.

Yet, he was.

"…Get out," John told Sherlock, tone firm and soft all at the same time.

"…John."

"Go. Just go."

Opening his mouth to say something more, Sherlock began to move forward again, but John shook his head and Mary backed away and Rose tugged on his arm.

"I said _get OUT!"_ John commanded, suddenly jabbing his finger in the direction of the doorway and Sherlock sunk back into himself, his chest cavity collapsing under the weight of a thousand words unspoken and pressure in the air so intense, his eyes began to well up against his will. "_Go. _Don't come back!"

John was making his own way toward the man—the ghost—now, forcing his finger into Sherlock's chest, pushing him with force before he was shoving him with his entire palm and Rose tugged more, making sure Sherlock would get out alright; trying to stop him from facing anything more that could hurt him.

"Le's go, Sherlock," she told him, shaking ever-so-slightly as a result of the other man's rage. This wasn't how she expected things to end at all.

Sherlock managed one more whispered, "John, please," before the door was slammed with might, shutting him once more out of the world of the only person he'd ever held on a pedestal.

Sherlock swayed for a moment, but he was frozen, his mind replaying the scene over and over again just to torment him, just to show him the unwanted emotions and _overall vexation_ John displayed _over and over _again. He wasn't wanted here, that was more than clear.

What, in fact, just _happened?_ John was not happy to see him.

"Sherlock…" Rose spoke, trying to turn his attention away from the event at hand with any combination of words she could muster.

Apart from a deep breath through his nostrils, he stayed relatively quiet as he darted a weary glance in her direction, then turned away from the door and began to trek back to the street to hail a cab.

Rose decided she needed to give him some space, as this was her fault after all, so she regarded her phone on the cab ride home, looking through old photos. She didn't at all expect the text she received, but she couldn't help but smile at it, even knowing the composition of the aura of the car they were in.

[February 8th, 12:57PM]  
>[From Jack] I hear you're in the area. Drinks?<p>

They were nearing 221B now and she wondered if Sherlock and Jack would get on (they wouldn't) or if Sherlock would let a stranger visit despite knowing he probably wouldn't like him (perhaps).

[February 8th, 12:57PM]  
>[To Jack] How did you know? Did you speak to the Doctor?<p>

Rose suddenly wondered where the Doctor _was_. He expected her to be out with Sherlock for a day, but she ended up staying in the flat and the Doctor hadn't said a word to her, tried to contact, or even _called_. Maybe there was an issue he had to attend to? Maybe he was mingling with an alien species that didn't belong here, trying to get them to go home?

A twinge of guilt hit her system as she thought about it. She'd promised two different men she'd stay and though Sherlock clearly needed her more, the Doctor still needed _someone_.

[February 8th, 12:59PM]  
>[From Jack] No ma'am. My Rose senses were tingling. ;)<p>

[February 8th, 12:59PM]  
>[To Jack] Still the same as always, Captain.<p>

Rose giggled softly as the vehicle slowed and the two exited, Sherlock sighing softly. He needed to let every inkling of emotion _go._ Caring never helped him. It wasn't necessary for human life and there was a distinct _reason_ for that.

His hands in his hoodie pocket, he lead Rose upstairs, the woman just his shadow and nothing more as he settled into the reality of her. She was just a replacement—one he was using to fill in for not just John, but his mind, two things he thought would never fail him. He simply didn't realise he'd be using the organ in his head for ludicrous sentimental notions.

Come to think of it, upon careful observation, it appeared he didn't even have his Skull to talk to, anymore. Rose would _have_ to stay, now.

Upon making their way upstairs, Rose thought she heard a noise from the main room, but dismissed it easily, trying to focus on Sherlock.

"D'ya wan' some tea? Maybe ya should get some rest."

"I don't have time for rest. And no tea."

"Wha', ya don't have time for tha', eitha'?"

Sherlock snorted quietly. He liked her spunk. It made things interesting.

"You could assist me if you like," the detective offered, soon whipping his head around at the sound of footsteps coming from the kitchen and a voice he couldn't identify.

"You don't have any milk," spoke the blonde woman. She was wielding a sleek, black, .50 caliber dart gun in her right hand. It swung at her side.

Sherlock recognised her on sight. "You're the woman from the street." The woman who took a photo of them on her mobile.

Rose swallowed hard and held her phone to the side to call for help in case it was needed. Sherlock seemed much too placid for that, though, as of yet.

"You don't look anything like your brother."

The scientist scrunched his nose in distaste. "What happened to Mycroft?"

"Nothing."

"Who are ya?" Rose asked.

"Better question: Who are _you_?"

The three stayed silent for a moment, then the stranger brought her tranquiliser gun high enough to aim, but Sherlock put his hand up defensively. "_Wait. _What do you want?"

She rose a brow, surprised by his action. From what she heard about Sherlock, he wasn't the sort to seem so panicked under fire. Even under that mask of calm and collected, she could see the flames in his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. But I have a deadline." She fired without a thought.

Rose gasped sharply and though her first instinct was to run, she threw herself to the floor in a roll, completing the distance between herself and the other woman before swiftly hooking onto her legs to bring her to the ground.

Startled, the woman nearly lost her grip on the gun, but she managed to hold onto it, her back thudding painfully to the ground.

Though Rose was much fiercer than she appeared, she still wasn't strong enough to out-will the strength of a tranquiliser dart, so the gunwoman fired as best she could as Rose attempted to wrestle it from her, managing to hit Rose in the thigh.

It would do.

Rose's world faded to black.


	8. Downpour

Oh, I do so love this one. It was loads of fun to write! Kelly Rutherford as Alison.

* * *

><p><em>8.<em>

Rose's eyelids fluttered open overdramatically; her right eyelashes had tangled with each other with the sleep in her eyes and she brought up a hand to rub away the uncomfortable feeling. Groaning quietly, memories flooded the forefront of her mind.

"_Sherlock?_" she asked, voice alert as her body sat up hastily by it's own will. John was moving towards her (he'd pushed out of his chair where he regarded his laptop as she said the detective's name) and gripped onto her shoulder's lightly as she tried to sit up.

"Oh, no no no, you don't want to do that," he cautioned, firm grasp holding her in place. "You'll be dizzy. Tranq got you good."

She let him lie her back down. "Where's th'Doctor?"

"I am the doctor."

Rose's head spun. "Where's Sherlock?"

"He's fine."

No. That couldn't be right. She remembered _distinctly _colliding into the gunwoman's lower body and forcing her to the ground, struggling and fighting to stop her from taking her friend away. He'd been through enough.

"He was attacked by this… crazy… _woman_," the traveller explained, hands trembling where they rest on her stomach, right below her breasts.

"I know. Like I said, he's fine." John smiled warmly and sat beside her on the edge of the couch. "I'm sorry for earlier. That wasn't the greatest way to meet me. I'm John."

Rose blinked away her confusion and smiled slowly. "I know. I'm Rose." Biting the side of her tongue, Rose paused. "How, though? How is Sherlock _fine_?"

"I got a text. Look, this, well… it kinda happens _a lot_."

"Gettin' attacked by women who break inta ya flat with tranq guns?"

"Well, not to the specific detail, but Sherlock and, or myself being kidnapped, yes. Though, in this case, it's not a dangerous situation."

"You know who kidnapped him?"

John scoffed wearily, nodding. "His brother."

_{}_

"Put Havering on Teal Alert."

"Teal, Mycroft? You're getting creative."

"It seemed fitting. It's upgraded to level three in two hours."

"Is that for the IBISH bandit?"

"We'll have to give her a different name."

"The _teal_ bandit, _sir_?"

Sherlock opened his eyes slowly, focusing on his elder brother. The government official had a large two-inch binder in his lap and was flipping a laminated page as he regarded the blonde who kidnapped Sherlock with a look of stern ambiance.

The woman brought her attention to the younger Holmes. "Well, afternoon. Glad you could join us."

Licking his lips, Sherlock lolled his head to the side. He was sitting upright in a _very_ comfortable chair, but his position was hard on his back, most likely from being there for so long, spine curved.

Mycroft gazed at his sibling as well, then as if it was the most mundane thing in the world, addressed him with, "Greetings, Sherlock," before regarding his binder, again. "The IBISH bandit is not to be taken lightly, Alison. She's done a lot of damage. You ought to have some respect for the case."

"Come now, Mycroft. I have a great deal of respect. She's fighting in your brother's name."

Sherlock licked his lips and brought his hand to the bridge of his nose, pinching lightly. "I'm going to assume," Sherlock started, having to clear his throat because his voice was obscenely hoarse, "this woman works for you."

His elder brother's eyes were on him, again. "Wrong. Try again."

It would be quite odd, if that were the case. Mycroft had a tendency to hire women at least fifteen years younger than him. She clearly wasn't.

He thought about bringing up the fact that 'Alison' kidnapped him, but of course, like always, Mycroft already knew that. He was the one who gave the order. "Clearly, you don't work for _her_, then… who is she?"

Alison smiled warmly and turned back to her laptop.

"Why, she's my fiancée."

_{}_

Rose gathered her phone from the floor where it fell out of her pocket as she attacked the intruder in the flat.

"Have you been with Sherlock the entire time he was in hiding?" John inquired, sitting in Sherlock's chair. It was a habit he picked up shortly after the detective's 'death.' It made John feel safe; like everything was fine, again.

"No. I jus' met him a few days ago. Well, give or take." She shrugged. You could never really tell, travelling in the TARDIS.

There were two new messages from Jack.

[February 8th, 1:13PM]  
>[From Jack] I never change.<p>

[February 8th, 1:39PM]  
>[From Jack] I'm serious about getting together, though. It's not like I see you very much. How long are you two staying?<p>

John sighed softly. It was so like Sherlock to subject himself to loneliness. Why didn't he just tell John he was planning to deceive Moriarty? "Are you part of the IBISH movement?"

Smiling at the mention of it, Rose shook her head. "No. I jus' heard 'bou' them th'other day, too."

[February 8th, 5:05PM]  
>[To Jack] I dunno, yet. Are you in Cardiff? I don't want to make you come all the way out to London.<p>

John was just talking aloud, now, no care whether or not Rose was listening. "They're doing something great, trying to put light on Sherlock's name. I've always appreciated them. And I was surprised there were so many. Over two-thousand networking, now, as far as I know. They have a Facebook page and everything. I'm pretty sure the government monitors it, though, after Amanda Abbington tagged every school in London with a mural of Sherlock's face." John chuckled softly. "They call themselves 'Sherlockians.'"

The blonde woman smiled at his fond expression, slouching on the couch before deciding to pull her legs up underneath her. It was clear John and Sherlock were very close friends, which saddened her, knowing they were apart for such an extended amount of time.

"How long was Sherlock gone?"

"Two years. Well, and a month, but…" John shook his head and looked away, seemingly lost in his own thoughts for a moment. Rose peered at her phone in hopes of a reply to give him some privacy, but there was nothing, yet.

The army doctor finally locked onto her again, now with a new hard-hitting topic. "I went to jail," he told her, though she was puzzled as to why.

"Whadd'ya mean?"

"After Sherlock's… de—" he breathed deeply, "… after he left." He listed the reasons on his fingers. "For assault of an authority figure, for conspiring to kill, facilitating murder, running from the law…"

"That's _terrible._"

"Of course, Mycroft, Sherlock's brother, got me out pretty quickly. The bail honestly wasn't as high as I expected. I've tried to pay him back a few times, but he never takes my offers. I'm well off, now. Livin' in the Docklands, on the water. Mary—she's my wife, or, well, she's going to be—she tutors children in private schools, from the ages of five to twelve. And I've got quite the pay raise over the past two years."

"It sounds li'e ya're doin' okay. Ya place was real nice. Huge compared ta th'flat I used ta live in when I was still livin' with ma mum."

"I was happy. Well, as happy as I could manage. And things were really looking up."

"You make it sound li'e Sherlock's return's a bad thin'."

John just looked at her with a forlorn expression on his features, mouth a hard line. Of course Sherlock's return wasn't a negative impact on his life, but it brought back so much grief and up so many questions.

"It took me a long time to learn to live without him."

_{}_

Mycroft wasn't the type of person who knew how to orchestrate humour. He could build an empire under fire, rally hundreds-of-thousands of people without a campaign and bury a government case even after it was leaked on the internet, but _farce_? Certainly not his area.

_He was really going to marry a blonde businesswoman with a tranquilizer._

Mycroft had been married before. His first wife's name was Isabella and the two were inseparable. She always knew the right things to say, what to do, and taught him half the things he knew about deception. Mycroft married her because it was the right thing to _do_, at the time. It would re-enforce Britain's relationship with Spain. They weren't neighbours as countries, but Britain borrowed a large sum of money from Spain to start field research. Unfortunately, Spain wasn't the wealthiest of economies, so they expected militia guardianship in return until the price was repaid in full.

Isabella was assassinated and of course _nobody_ ever repaid in full. He never stopped wearing his wedding ring, however.

Not even for his second wife, Eleanor, who was a member of Her Majesty's Parliament in the lower house. This marriage was to ensure a proper Prime Minister was brought into office. Their camaraderie didn't last and, in fact, the question remains if it ever really began, as their divorce papers went through barely a month after the elections.

_Clearly_, Alison was _not_ a government official or a peace offering from another country. So, what the _hell_ did she have to offer Mycroft Holmes?

He wasn't wearing Isabella's wedding ring, either.

"How long have you known I was alive?"

Sherlock didn't like asking Mycroft questions. It was much more savoury when the elder was the one out of the loop. He'd leave Alison to himself to deduce and if that didn't work, he wouldn't ask questions. Mycroft would be too smug.

"Several months."

"Only _months_, Mycroft? It dazzles me how obtuse you can be at times."

The government worker harrumphed, a foul taste in his mouth at his sibling's comment. "You did an impeccable job, Sherlock. And you were difficult to track when the news finally _did_ fall in my lap."

"Oh, that's not the only thing falling in your lap."

"_Sherlock!_"

"I thought you were above this." He shot a look in Alison's direction, but she was meticulously ignoring them and Sherlock knew it must've taken all her will-power to keep her eyes on the computer screen. "You said you would never marry again."

"Facts change. It's quite a peculiar phenomenon."

The detective rigidly straightened with a grunt of acknowledgement. "Why am I here? Simply to prove you knew the nature of my hoax? Or to impress me with your new… toy?"

"Neither." It would do little good to correct Sherlock's characterisation of Alison. He was so stubborn. "I brought you here to warn you. Moriarty has been replaced."

Sherlock pushed out of his chair and stood with a fierce, "_What?"_

"Do sit down, Sherlock. We have much to discuss. There is a new issue afoot and we don't even know as much as his real name. He simply goes by _Jim Moriarty_. I've seen photos of him—it is _not_ the James Moriarty we knew."

"No," Sherlock agreed, "he's dead."

"And despite this, his incarnate is still cunning, with an intelligence of great magnitude and so, still a _threat_."

The detective clenched his teeth. And here he thought the only great threat remaining was Sebastian Moran, the man who had his mark on John. A copycat was unstable and though not of a complex mind like Moriarty, still something to be on his toes about.

"There was no point to bring me here, Mycroft. I don't want your assistance, if you're offering, and I don't need your guidance, at any rate."

It seemed Alison was finally through pretending they didn't exist. "Sherlock," she started kindly, resting her side against the back of her chair as her left leg crossed her right. "Your brother only wants to make your life easier. I understand you're frustrated with him, but your feud should not come before the safety of your friends."

"Bite your tongue, _woman_," Sherlock spat disrespectfully.

"_Sherlock!_" Mycroft scolded for the second time that night, but before he could apologise to his betrothed, his sibling continued.

"You've no place to act as if you know what's best for me." Sherlock narrowed his eyes to deadly slits. "I'm leaving. Evening, Mycroft."

_{}_

Thankfully, John owned a car. Really, Rose hadn't remembered how costly it was getting around London in a cab. In Pete's universe, she had her own car, and when she was with the Doctor, they had a vehicle that ran without fuel.

[February 8th, 5:48PM]  
>[From Jack] I'm already in London. I fixed my vortex manipulator. Sort of. And I'm not letting the Doctor touch it again. Don't tell him, please? I promise I'll be good. Where are you?<p>

[February 8th, 5:49PM]  
>[To Jack] I thought he deactivated it? How did you get it to work again?<p>

"Take a left here," Rose told John, pointing to the corner of the street where it forked with two options; forward or left.

John pulled into the turn lane and initiated his turn signal. "There's the bowling alley. Should I just park in the lot, here?"

"Yeah, tha's fine."

The doctor did as he was instructed and pulled into a spot two spaces over from a large truck at the far end of the lot. He turned off the engine and pocketed his keys as he made his way out of the vehicle, circling around to follow Rose's lead.

"I wonder how long Sherlock will be gone. I really want to apologise." John huffed quietly. "Well, maybe not _apologise_, but something along those lines."

Tilting her head as she looked at him, Rose tucked some hair behind her right ear. "Ya two 'ave a difficult relationship, don'cha?"

"Right. _Difficult. _Just the word I'd use."

She could tell he was still battling the situation. The way John spoke about him made it evident they were far closer than she ever suspected. As close as she was with the Doctor. Maybe moreso.

Hell, what was she supposed to say to him, anyway? And, well, if Sherlock had John, he surely didn't need her, right? Perhaps it would be best to find a way out of this situation. After all the technicalities were sorted, of course.

"Are ya okay?" Rose asked him as they approached the side of the bowling alley.

"Who? Me?" John mentally slapped himself for that. "Sorry. Yes, I'm fine. I'm just… I don't know. It's unreal, having him back. So unreal." He couldn't help but smile just a fraction.

About to comfort him, Rose was interrupted by a crude, repetitive banging noise and, as they rounded the back of the building, she spotted Jack pounding on the TARDIS door with his fist as a lean, younger girl stood beside him with her arms crossed, her hair sleeked back in a neat pony tail.

"Jack," Rose called when he stopped hitting the telephone box with an overdramatic sigh. The captain turned half-way, spotting the source of his name.

"Oh! Rose. I figured you were in there. No one's answering!"

She had a slight skip in her walk as she grew closer. "I've been out and about. Did you try calling him? He's been pretty good about keeping a phone on him, recently." The two embraced tightly, swaying back and forth in the hug, firm and drawn-out to make up for the time they'd been away from each other. Rose grinned.

"Don't you have a key? Besides, I think you best call him. He'd probably just ignore me." With a snort, Jack turned to John as the man slowed beside them, but not too close. "And who's _this_?" the Torchwood operative inquired suggestively, giving the army doctor a wink. A pale cast fell over John's face and his eyes narrowed in both disbelief and confusion.

No one seemed to notice.

"Don't be rude ta ya lady friend," Rose chided with a tilt of her chin in the girl's direction.

She waved at Rose with a smile, but didn't move away from the TARDIS. "Don't worry," the girl called, "I'm used to it. No point changing Jack when he's already perfect the way he is."

Jack grinned, but John pulled his phone out to distract himself in the awkwardness of the situation.

"Thank you, dear. Wait," the captain backtracked, shaking his head. "You… two haven't met?"

With an arched brow, Rose looked to the blonde with the ponytail, then back at her long-term friend. "No, I don't think so. Why?"

The man clicked his tongue, eyes wide for a moments time before he looked away. "Uh, Rose, this is Jenny."

The former smiled gracefully and nodded and Jenny took a few steps closer, the corners of her lips turned upwards, as well. "Hello, Jenny."

"How do you know my father?" the younger asked, curiosity tickling her voice.

Rose blinked several times, abashed. "Wait, ya _fatha'_?" Rose licked her lips and peered at Jack questioningly.

He put his hands up. "Don't look at me."

"Could someone tell me what's going on here?" rung John's voice as he crossed his arms with his mobile still loosely in his hand.

"It's a long story," Jack offered. "Wanna play some rounds while the girls duke it out?" He gestured to the bowling alley's back entrance.

"Not… particularly."

"No, seriously, who are ya?" asked Rose.

John turned back to the elder blonde. "Oh, for heaven's—"

The door to the TARDIS opened and the Doctor stared at the four peculiar little people outside his spaceship. They all seemed to calm, just by his appearance and he looked over them, feeling elated by the presence of one, mixed feelings by the presence of another (though mostly brilliantly elated, as well), intrigue by another and excitement with the last. Still, with all these emotions coursing through him, he managed to speak in a dignified and orderly fashion.

"Was someone knocking on the TARDIS? People don't _knock_ on the TARDIS. And I'd recommend not doing it if they _did_. She doesn't like that."


	9. Torrent

_Big apologies for being so late. I have little control over when these will be up, from now on. I will work hard to get them out as quickly as possible, but no promises in that regard. I can only promise they will be worth your time to read and things will slowly (but surely) get more and more interesting. Stick around and _thank you so much_ for your patience_. _Reviews greatly appreciated.__ And a big thank-you to Take Me To Your TARDIS for doing just that. Truly._  
>-Sebastian Moran played by: <em>Alexander Skarsgard<em>  
>-Note: <em>"Insignis" is both plural and singular.<em>

* * *

><p><em>9.<em>

[February 8rd, 4:34PM]  
>[From +44 20 8102 3331] We're still waiting for our payment. The code is 2A783.<p>

Sherlock set his jaw, debating whether or not to send a text to John. His favourite mug was sitting on the coffee table, liquid still filling it half-way. The army doctor had been here. Recently.

_There's no way John would've left that mug in the flat after he moved out. And if on the off chance he did and Rose fished it out of the cabinet, why would she have coffee so leisurely after Sherlock was kidnapped?_

The scientist dipped his finger in the dark liquid, churning it with his forefinger several times to stir the mixture before slipping the digit into his mouth. _Definitely John's_. _Cream, no sugar._

There was a subtle comfort in that.

[February 8rd, 6:12PM]  
>[To John] Are you with Rose?<p>

The reply came less than a minute after his inquiry.

[February 8rd, 6:12PM]  
>[From John] Is this Sherlock? Yeah. Mycroft texted me. We need to talk.<p>

[February 8rd, 6:13PM]  
>[To John] Where are you?<p>

[February 8rd, 6:13PM]  
>[From John] She brought me to meet some doctor. This place is amazing!<p>

[February 8rd, 6:13PM]  
>[To John] Bowling alley?<p>

[February 8rd, 6:14PM]  
>[From John] That's the one. It's huge inside, but it's just a normal old phone box on the outside. How is this possible? No one is explaining it to me. Should I be worried?<p>

[February 8rd, 6:14PM]  
>[To John] No. You're in good hands.<p>

Sherlock tapped down the stairs and down the hallway. "Mrs. Hudson, I'm going out."

The little woman was pouring detergent into the washing machine, looking up at his presence in the doorway. "You've only just come home, dear."

Unable to help himself, Sherlock smiled endearingly at the mention of 221B being _home_. "I have to help John. We have a case to solve."

"Always you with your cases…" Mrs. Hudson shut the lid to the washer and bent over to pick up the laundry basket with dried clothes. "Just make sure to be safe. I don't want you dying again, if you can help it."

He let out a soft snicker and moved around her, helping her with the plastic bin. "I've got this."

"Oh, Sherlock." Placing a hand over her heart, she followed him out of the room. "Thank-you."

_{ }_

John leaned forward, his forearms on his knees as he rest, soundless, on the TARDIS floor. Rose sat in the seat he had his back to, but she was tuned into the Doctor's conversation, whereas John squandered around in his own mind, eyes merely doorways to blackness.

Sherlock betrayed his trust and now… Well, now, John didn't understand how he was supposed to build up that faith, again. It was so irreproachable before—the one thing John knew above all else. _He trusted Sherlock_.

Though a more dominant part of himself lay in wake of the reality of Sherlock's existence, a churning in his gut, filled with so much anger and more than enough pain, demanded an apology he would probably never receive and words he knew would never come. He wanted Sherlock to beg him for forgiveness. To get down on his knees and kiss his feet and cry until he was gasping for breath—

No, no, he didn't want that. It wouldn't embody anything that Sherlock was: that marvellous, genius, ridiculous man he proved to be.

John had his theories. Sherlock faked his death. Why? He always had a reason for everything, so there certainly _was_ a reason.

Two years was a long time.

Long enough to accept someone else was truly gone, especially when everyone else made it very clear that was to be believed.

The fingers of his left hand flexed as he replayed the memories of the day Sherlock Holmes fell, reaching out moments before to a man who was supposed to be his _best _friend. And John outstretched his own hand in return.

"Yes, okay, but how did you end up _here_?"

The Doctor's voice made the army veteran peer in the direction of all the supposed hype, and he watched as the man in the pinstripe suit placed his hands on both sides of Jenny's upper arms, looking into her as if he could extract her secrets telepathically. She grinned.

"I told you," Jack started, tapping his foot with no real rhythm to it, "I found her, she told me who she was, I took her in, end of story."

"Yeah, but _how_?"

"I'm sorry—" Rose injected, waving her hand, "Can we get back to the part about you having a _daughter_?" She leaned forward in her seat.

The Doctor parted his lips slightly. "Well, it's not what you think—"

"It was an accident," Jack offered.

"I was created in a machine. I'm only _his_, biologically, if that's what you're worried about."

"I'm not—" Rose huffed. "I'm not _worried! _Who said I was worried? He just… didn't tell me he had a daughter!"

With a grimace, the man in question regarded Jenny, again, then looked to Jack. "_How _did she get here?" And then again, to Jenny. "In fact, _how_ do you look like—" he gestured to all of her, "_this?_If you regenerated, you should've changed. You were dead, you were gone, no, but you're not, anymore. Good. That's good." Straightening out his suit jacket, he swayed slightly.

"I don't know," she replied honestly. "I don't know much about… Time Lords. My people were producing warriors, not Time Lords. Maybe the machine mutated your DNA."

"Maybe..." The Doctor rose a brow as he looked to the captain.

"Yeah, I know. _How _did she get here. Well, it was an accident. I might've ended up in the future for a week or so, but—"

"_What?_"

"I live on a rift in time and space! Anything could happen."

About to rebuttal, the Doctor shot his gaze in the direction of the TARDIS doors as they opened. John pushed off the ground to stand, but Rose darted past him, surprising the source with a rather abrupt embrace.

"Who's _that_?" Jack inquired. For once, it was a result of Rose's reaction to the man rather than his physique (though he was _bewitching_).

"Sherlock Holmes." The Doctor's hands slid into his pockets.

As John grew closer, he forced himself to shift from resigned to rigid. By no means was he giving in. Sherlock was a human being—not a god. Nothing special.

Oh, but that was far from the truth.

"Hello, Rose," he whispered, "Miss me?" His eyes, made of solid ice, lingered on John, even as the woman pulled away and Rose laughed with a quiet, "Yeah," soon realising she was wedging herself in the middle of circumstances beyond her knowledge.

She glanced in the Doctor's direction. He was watching her. A moment later, as she stepped back, her eyes were on the floor.

"Sherlock—" John tried to start, but his mouth instantly clamped back down, teeth clenched with a hard line for lips.

Clearing his throat, the detective gave a curt nod, then moved to walk past his shorter friend, toward the centre of the room. He didn't make it very far before John's fingers found their way on the sleeve of his hoodie jacket, the gentle tug making Sherlock glance his way curiously.

He could see everything, now. John's pain and ferocity and despair. Everything John could rarely see in Sherlock. But it was better that way.

"C'mon, then," Sherlock spoke, gesturing toward the technological mushroom (really that thing was ridiculous). "You're either with me or against me. Pick a side."

"That's not even a question." His fingers slipped from the material and he peered solemnly through a thin sheet of liquid, mouth ajar, but words failing to expel from it.

Sherlock managed to give John a faded half-smile, but the doctor could _feel_ the forgery and couldn't help but wonder if the mad man even knew he was doing it.

Did he realise he was becoming his brother? The lies, the scandal, the devilish way of being direct and now, that _smile_.

It was sick.

As he neared the others, Sherlock noticed all eyes on him, instantly scrutinizing the two newcomers. If they were friends of Rose, they were most likely tolerable. Friends with the alien; this was unlikely.

The first his eyes locked onto were the steel-blue of a blonde-haired girl's gaze. She was standing close to the Doctor, hand around his upper arm. Clearly they were close, but in what relation, Sherlock couldn't decipher. She seemed near the same age as Rose, so perhaps a traveller like her? Surprisingly, despite her emotions easy to read, her background was uncertain, which always bothered the detective in the same way Irene Adler agitated him.

It was always easier to pull data from someone when they were wearing clothes; clothing told dozens of stories simultaneously. Hers were pristine and simple, and though appeared low-end at first glance, with secondary inspection, the material was fresh and costly—but what did that say about her as a person?

Sherlock scrunched his nose, vowing to pay close attention to her.

He shifted his gaze to the other newcomer, who was staring sternly in return, but he didn't look away under the scrutiny.

"Sherlock?" the Doctor asked. With only a single glance, Sherlock allowed the alien to know his voice was heard, but he went back to his study. John finally moved from his place, shoulders slouched. Bringing himself beside Rose, he watched her for a long moment, her head finally turning to face him, features inquisitive.

_Pompous. Head tilted upward, eyes searing. Full of himself. Confident. Slight smirk. Knowing. Amused. Entertainment._

"Don't worry, he just does this," John whispered softly, tilting his head in the scientist's direction.

"Sherlock, this is Jenny. Jenny, Sherlock."

_Stance firm, similar to John's, though legs parted slightly. Military._

The Doctor grinned, though it was drawn from uncertainty, as he circled behind his daughter and placed his hands on her waist.

_Growing closer, easily noted: well-groomed hair, stitched coat on the left-hand side—slit of some sort, like the material was caught on a sharp object or ripped open. Frayed cloth around the second to bottom button, which was dented. Bottom of pant legs dirtied at the bottom cuffs and the crevice below the knees—messy occupation. Spent time out in the field. Cares little for the state of his clothing, but still makes a point to groom himself…_

"I know who you are," Jack finally spoke, taking a few steps in the other man's direction. "I'm surprised we haven't met, yet, actually. It makes sense you went to the Doctor for help, but I—"

"Who are you?"

_Scents of dust and smoke and cologne, perhaps… Oil. No, a distinct smell._

Sherlock's eyes shifted to the man's hands.

"You're right handed," he started, vision darting back up, again as his left eye twitched ever so slightly with the information swarming in.

"Most people are."

"Approximately eighty-six percent of the population, yes." _Oil… baby oil… oil in skin care products—yes. _"I'd say you're adaptable. _Crafty, _even. Quick to pick up on things; like who I _am, _despite the fact we've never met. Because you _know_ who I am. You've seen photographs. And you've watched." Sherlock smirked, but it soon dissolved into a look of disgust as he clasped his hands behind his back. "And you're getting it. Oh, you are. So. Where's your gun, Colonel?"

Jack swayed, pulling his coat back to reveal the automatic on his belt.

_Shea butter._

Sherlock pushed from his location with all the force in the balls of his feet, tackling the man in the long coat vigorously. They tumbled to the ground with a hard _thud_ and _chink _as the grates of the TARDIS shifted.

"Whoa!" called the Doctor, rushing to stop the brawl consisting of streaking fists and scrambling bodies.

"John!" Sherlock called, reaching desperately for Jack's gun at his hip and Jack gripped the detective's wrist, yanking him up further—just out of reach.

"What the hell are you doing?" Jack demanded, feeling the Doctor's hand brush his side as he made an effort to pull Sherlock away from the everliving man. John dashed toward them as well and Rose intercepted a distraught Jenny. The room grew loud.

"John, it's him!" he explained, thrashing away from the Doctor's grip.

"It's okay, Sherlock, just calm down."

"Leave him alone!"

"Please, everyone shut up!"

They fell quiet at the Doctor's voice. John, making a last minute decision, decided to help the man in the suit and forced the detective from his prey (who instantly put his hands up in defense).

"It's Moran, John! What are you doing?"

As John shook his head, lips parting in a lack of a proper reply, Jack scoffed quietly.

"Moran? Why do you think I'm him?" Jack managed to balance himself, sitting upright. "I'm not Sebastian Moran. _Trust me._"

"I didn't say his given name."

There was a clear ring of suspicion embedded in the words, but Jack understood. "How much do you know?"

"You wrote the letter."

The Doctor's hand tightened around the detective's wrist as Sherlock visibly bristled, but Sherlock jerked irritably, moving to the side away from the others in the room.

"Sherlock…" John began, starting toward him, again.

"_Don't,_" he warned, halting the doctor in his tracks.

Jack pushed off the ground. "Yes. I wrote the letter. Moran didn't want to be traced. I work for him—well, to some degree."

"I should_ kill_ you." Sherlock ground his teeth together, using all the willpower he could muster to stay in place.

"I'm on your side."

"Not from where I'm standing."

Rose cut in quietly, making herself known in the room full of accusations and miscommunication. "I'm sorry, but… _Jack…_ You're… working for the man who wants Sherlock and John _dead_?"

The Torchwood operative took a deep, steadying breath through his nose.

"I can explain."

_{ }_

"Jack," the familiar velvet voice hummed. The captain cleared his desk of several sheets of papers, stacking them all on the side before placing the excess clips in a plastic container.

"I attached each file with a recent photograph. I don't see the resemblance."

"You don't have to." The lean man recently entering the room was blond with short-crop military cut hair, wearing mesh black cargo pants and a simple white tank top. He was usually a fraction more formal, though Jack enjoyed the tank. It showed off his upper body. "Say," Moran picked up, "I need you to write someone a note for me."

Jack nodded briskly, lips twitching in a partial smile as he offered the stack of papers to the blond. "Is the Master coming in, today?"

"No. He has better things to get done than deal with the likes of you."

"Ah…" Chuckling lightly, Jack slid out of his chair. "You're afraid he'll get jealous."

A snort. "He's not the jealous type."

Mischievously, Jack moved in close, coarse skin of his palm skating over Sebastian's defined bicep. The sniper was least reticent about his occupation when he was engulfed by the haze of sex, so Jack often took advantage of the weak link.

Another bonus attached to the arrangement was the easy avoidance of encountering the Master, himself. Upon discovering who Sebastian Moran was working for several months ago, the captain made sure to do everything in his power to get in Moran's good graces without alerting the Time Lord of his presence.

It didn't take long to suss out the two were fucking—Moran had an obvious attachment to the man, though it's foundation was a mixture of resentment and respect.

"Seb…" Jack whispered softly, his lips at the blond's jaw, "I've been lonely…"

A faint shiver could be felt from the cutthroat's form, but Moran quickly corrected himself and shoved Jack at the base of his shoulder. "Don't be a spiv. The _note_."

So, he was in a hurry, then. Perhaps the Master _was _coming 'round. Establishing a physical relationship gave Jack much more than information on the Master and his enlisted toys—it gave him a way out. If that insane man knew what he was doing, it would jeopardize all of his efforts and put his entire team back in Cardiff in danger.

"I should go soon. I have something to finish." An easy code; a safe way to leave. Sebastian Moran wouldn't ask questions because he, himself, was a conman and a tyrant who played with life and death in his spare time. Such words as _finish _and _complete_ and _end_ and _do_, they all held that same connotation: someone was going to die.

The flaw in the mechanics didn't alert Sebastian to the simple turnaround reality that it just might be _him._Or better yet, the Time Lord running this whole operation.

The Master had enough fun, now. And if the Doctor wasn't here, Torchwood would bring him down. He wasn't ending the world, again. He didn't have the right to put human kind through a year that never was or could have been, even if none of them remembered it in the end.

"Will you be back, tomorrow? We need to check on the status of the Insignis. Figure out how the fusion works."

"Isn't it kinda dangerous letting them roam around on their own?" Jack opened the bottom drawer of one of their cabinets and pulled a blank sheet of paper from the back.

"No. This is their home planet." Seb watched him, indiscreetly staring at his ass before he realised what Jack was doing. "Get the copy paper, instead."

"What for?" He did as he was told, however, bringing the white sheet attached to yellow and pink sheets behind it to the desk before sitting down and reaching for a pen.

Seb stood behind him, resting his hand on Jack's shoulder. "That's exactly what Sherlock Holmes will wonder if he finds it."

"Right…" This Sherlock Holmes bloke, again. Jack heard quite a bit about him—from Moran and even years back on the news. He was pretty popular for a while. "Whatever, so, wait, how can this be the Insignis home planet? I've never seen one before I met you."

Seb sighed as Jack turned in his seat to look at the sniper, brow raised. The room began to fill with a low sound of music and Moran retrieved his mobile from his left pocket, grunting at the name on the screen.

"Hello," he answered softly, tilting the phone away from his mouth. "They have a form to blend into the planet—hundreds of species do it. I'll be back in a minute.

"Boss?" Moran started up, again, focusing on the call, "Yeah. I think so.

"Well, I can't be completely certain, yet. I have someone checking it out.

"Absolutely."

As the blond began to make his way out of the room, Jack stared at the blank carbonless copy paper, mind focused on the Insignis and what their form could be. Most likely human, considering the majority of aliens choose a similar appearance. In his many decades of years on earth, he never heard of such a creature—massive in size, made entirely of stone and gems, and the energy of a newborn star their dominant life source. He was the centre of a Torchwood Three and lived on the world's largest space-time rift.

But, no such aliens seemed to exist.

As far as he knew.

And were they dangerous or allies of the human race?


End file.
